Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
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George had been angry twice or thrice at finding his
wife up on his return from the parties which he
frequented: so she went straight to bed now; but although
she did not sleep, and although the din and clatter, and
the galloping of horsemen were incessant, she never heard
any of these noises, having quite other disturbances to
keep her awake.

Osborne meanwhile, wild with elation, went off to a
play-table, and began to bet frantically. He won repeatedly. "Everything succeeds with me to-night," he said.
But his luck at play even did not cure him of his restlessness,
and he started up after awhile, pocketing his winnings,
and went to a buffet, where he drank off many
bumpers of wine.

Here, as he was rattling away to the people around,
laughing loudly and wild with spirits, Dobbin found him.
He had been to the card-tables to look there for his
friend. Dobbin looked as pale and grave as his comrade
was flushed and jovial.

''Hullo, Dob! Come and drink, old Dob! The Duke's
wine is famous. Give me some more, you sir"; and he
held out a trembling glass for the liquor.

"Come out, George," said Dobbin, still gravely; "don't
drink."

"Drink! there's nothing like it. Drink yourself, and
light up your lantern jaws, old boy. Here's to you."

Dobbin went up and whispered something to him, at
which George, giving a start and a wild hurray, tossed off
his glass, clapped it on the table, and walked away
speedily on his friend's arm. "The enemy has passed the
Sambre," William said, "and our left is already engaged.
Come away. We are to march in three hours."

Away went George, his nerves quivering with excitement
at the news so long looked for, so sudden when it
came. What were love and intrigue now? He thought
about a thousand things but these in his rapid walk to his
quarters--his past life and future chances--the fate which
might be before him--the wife, the child perhaps, from
whom unseen he might be about to part. Oh, how he
wished that night's work undone! and that with a clear
conscience at least he might say farewell to the tender
and guileless being by whose love he had set such little
store!

He thought over his brief married life. In those few
weeks he had frightfully dissipated his little capital. How
wild and reckless he had been! Should any mischance
befall him: what was then left for her? How unworthy he
was of her. Why had he married her? He was not fit for
marriage. Why had he disobeyed his father, who had been
always so generous to him? Hope, remorse, ambition,
tenderness, and selfish regret filled his heart. He sate
down and wrote to his father, remembering what he had
said once before, when he was engaged to fight a duel.
Dawn faintly streaked the sky as he closed this farewell
letter. He sealed it, and kissed the superscription. He
thought how he had deserted that generous father, and of
the thousand kindnesses which the stern old man had
done him.

He had looked into Amelia's bedroom when he entered;
she lay quiet, and her eyes seemed closed, and he
was glad that she was asleep. On arriving at his quarters
from the ball, he had found his regimental servant already
making preparations for his departure: the man
had understood his signal to be still, and these arrangements
were very quickly and silently made. Should he go
in and wake Amelia, he thought, or leave a note for her
brother to break the news of departure to her? He went
in to look at her once again.

She had been awake when he first entered her room,
but had kept her eyes closed, so that even her wakefulness
should not seem to reproach him. But when he had
returned, so soon after herself, too, this timid little heart
had felt more at ease, and turning towards him as he
stept softly out of the room, she had fallen into a light
sleep. George came in and looked at her again, entering
still more softly. By the pale night-lamp he could see her
sweet, pale face--the purple eyelids were fringed and
closed, and one round arm, smooth and white, lay outside
of the coverlet. Good God! how pure she was; how
gentle, how tender, and how friendless! and he, how
selfish, brutal, and black with crime! Heart-stained, and
shame-stricken, he stood at the bed's foot, and looked at
the sleeping girl. How dared he--who was he, to pray for
one so spotless! God bless her! God bless her! He came to
the bedside, and looked at the hand, the little soft hand,
lying asleep; and he bent over the pillow noiselessly
towards the gentle pale face.

Two fair arms closed tenderly round his neck as he
stooped down. "I am awake, George," the poor child said,
with a sob fit to break the little heart that nestled so
closely by his own. She was awake, poor soul, and to
what? At that moment a bugle from the Place of Arms
began sounding clearly, and was taken up through the
town; and amidst the drums of the infantry, and the
shrill pipes of the Scotch, the whole city awoke.

CHAPTER XXX

"The Girl I Left Behind Me"

We do not claim to rank among the military novelists.
Our place is with the non-combatants. When the decks
are cleared for action we go below and wait meekly. We
should only be in the way of the manoeuvres that the
gallant fellows are performing overhead. We shall go no
farther with the --th than to the city gate: and leaving
Major O'Dowd to his duty, come back to the Major's
wife, and the ladies and the baggage.

Now the Major and his lady, who had not been invited
to the ball at which in our last chapter other of our
friends figured, had much more time to take their
wholesome natural rest in bed, than was accorded to people
who wished to enjoy pleasure as well as to do duty. "It's
my belief, Peggy, my dear," said he, as he placidly pulled
his nightcap over his ears, "that there will be such a ball
danced in a day or two as some of 'em has never heard
the chune of"; and he was much more happy to retire to
rest after partaking of a quiet tumbler, than to figure at
any other sort of amusement. Peggy, for her part, would
have liked to have shown her turban and bird of
paradise at the ball, but for the information which her
husband had given her, and which made her very grave.

"I'd like ye wake me about half an hour before the assembly
beats," the Major said to his lady. "Call me at half-
past one, Peggy dear, and see me things is ready. May be
I'll not come back to breakfast, Mrs. O'D."  With which
words, which signified his opinion that the regiment would
march the next morning, the Major ceased talking, and
fell asleep.

Mrs. O'Dowd, the good housewife, arrayed in curl
papers and a camisole, felt that her duty was to act, and
not to sleep, at this juncture. "Time enough for that," she
said, "when Mick's gone"; and so she packed his travelling
valise ready for the march, brushed his cloak, his cap, and
other warlike habiliments, set them out in order for him;
and stowed away in the cloak pockets a light package of
portable refreshments, and a wicker-covered flask or
pocket-pistol, containing near a pint of a remarkably
sound Cognac brandy, of which she and the Major approved
very much; and as soon as the hands of the
"repayther" pointed to half-past one, and its interior
arrangements (it had a tone quite equal to a cathaydral, its
fair owner considered) knelled forth that fatal hour, Mrs.
O'Dowd woke up her Major, and had as comfortable a
cup of coffee prepared for him as any made that morning
in Brussels. And who is there will deny that this worthy
lady's preparations betokened affection as much as the
fits of tears and hysterics by which more sensitive females
exhibited their love, and that their partaking of this coffee,
which they drank together while the bugles were sounding
the turn-out and the drums beating in the various quarters
of the town, was not more useful and to the purpose than
the outpouring of any mere sentiment could be? The
consequence was, that the Major appeared on parade quite
trim, fresh, and alert, his well-shaved rosy countenance,
as he sate on horseback, giving cheerfulness and confidence
to the whole corps. All the officers saluted her
when the regiment marched by the balcony on which this
brave woman stood, and waved them a cheer as they
passed; and I daresay it was not from want of courage,
but from a sense of female delicacy and propriety, that
she refrained from leading the gallant --th personally
into action.

On Sundays, and at periods of a solemn nature, Mrs.
O'Dowd used to read with great gravity out of a large
volume of her uncle the Dean's sermons. It had been of
great comfort to her on board the transport as they were
coming home, and were very nearly wrecked, on their
return from the West Indies. After the regiment's
departure she betook herself to this volume for meditation;
perhaps she did not understand much of what she was
reading, and her thoughts were elsewhere: but the sleep
project, with poor Mick's nightcap there on the pillow,
was quite a vain one. So it is in the world. Jack or Donald
marches away to glory with his knapsack on his shoulder,
stepping out briskly to the tune of "The Girl I Left Behind
Me." It is she who remains and suffers--and has the
leisure to think, and brood, and remember.

Knowing how useless regrets are, and how the indulgence
of sentiment only serves to make people more miserable,
Mrs. Rebecca wisely determined to give way to no
vain feelings of sorrow, and bore the parting from her
husband with quite a Spartan equanimity. Indeed Captain
Rawdon himself was much more affected at the leave-
taking than the resolute little woman to whom he bade
farewell. She had mastered this rude coarse nature;
and he loved and worshipped her with all his faculties of
regard and admiration. In all his life he had never been so
happy, as, during the past few months, his wife had made
him. All former delights of turf, mess, hunting-field, and
gambling-table; all previous loves and courtships of
milliners, opera-dancers, and the like easy triumphs of the
clumsy military Adonis, were quite insipid when
compared to the lawful matrimonial pleasures which of late he
had enjoyed. She had known perpetually how to divert
him; and he had found his house and her society a
thousand times more pleasant than any place or company
which he had ever frequented from his childhood until
now. And he cursed his past follies and extravagances,
and bemoaned his vast outlying debts above all, which
must remain for ever as obstacles to prevent his wife's
advancement in the world. He had often groaned over
these in midnight conversations with Rebecca, although as
a bachelor they had never given him any disquiet. He
himself was struck with this phenomenon. "Hang it,"
he would say (or perhaps use a still stronger expression
out of his simple vocabulary), "before I was married I
didn't care what bills I put my name to, and so long as
Moses would wait or Levy would renew for three months,
I kept on never minding. But since I'm married, except
renewing, of course, I give you my honour I've not
touched a bit of stamped paper."

Rebecca always knew how to conjure away these
moods of melancholy. "Why, my stupid love," she would
say, "we have not done with your aunt yet. If she fails us,
isn't there what you call the Gazette? or, stop, when your
uncle Bute's life drops, I have another scheme. The living
has always belonged to the younger brother, and why
shouldn't you sell out and go into the Church?"  The idea
of this conversion set Rawdon into roars of laughter:
you might have heard the explosion through the hotel at
midnight, and the haw-haws of the great dragoon's voice.
General Tufto heard him from his quarters on the first
floor above them; and Rebecca acted the scene with great
spirit, and preached Rawdon's first sermon, to the
immense delight of the General at breakfast.

But these were mere by-gone days and talk. When the
final news arrived that the campaign was opened, and the
troops were to march, Rawdon's gravity became such
that Becky rallied him about it in a manner which rather
hurt the feelings of the Guardsman. "You don't suppose
I'm afraid, Becky, I should think," he said, with a tremor
in his voice. "But I'm a pretty good mark for a shot, and
you see if it brings me down, why I leave one and
perhaps two behind me whom I should wish to provide for,
as I brought 'em into the scrape. It is no laughing matter
that, Mrs. C., anyways."

Rebecca by a hundred caresses and kind words tried
to soothe the feelings of the wounded lover. It was only
when her vivacity and sense of humour got the better of
this sprightly creature (as they would do under most
circumstances of life indeed) that she would break out
with her satire, but she could soon put on a demure face.
"Dearest love," she said, "do you suppose I feel nothing?"
and hastily dashing something from her eyes, she
looked up in her husband's face with a smile.

"Look here," said he. "If I drop, let us see what there
is for you. I have had a pretty good run of luck here, and
here's two hundred and thirty pounds. I have got ten
Napoleons in my pocket. That is as much as I shall want;
for the General pays everything like a prince; and if I'm
hit, why you know I cost nothing. Don't cry, little woman;
I may live to vex you yet. Well, I shan't take either of my
horses, but shall ride the General's grey charger: it's
cheaper, and I told him mine was lame. If I'm done, those
two ought to fetch you something. Grigg offered ninety
for the mare yesterday, before this confounded news
came, and like a fool I wouldn't let her go under the two
o's. Bullfinch will fetch his price any day, only you'd
better sell him in this country, because the dealers have so
many bills of mine, and so I'd rather he shouldn't go
back to England. Your little mare the General gave you
will fetch something, and there's no d--d livery stable
bills here as there are in London," Rawdon added, with a
laugh. "There's that dressing-case cost me two hundred
--that is, I owe two for it; and the gold tops and bottles
must be worth thirty or forty. Please to put THAT up the
spout, ma'am, with my pins, and rings, and watch and
chain, and things. They cost a precious lot of money. Miss
Crawley, I know, paid a hundred down for the chain and
ticker. Gold tops and bottles, indeed! dammy, I'm sorry
I didn't take more now. Edwards pressed on me a silver-
gilt boot-jack, and I might have had a dressing-case fitted
up with a silver warming-pan, and a service of plate. But
we must make the best of what we've got, Becky, you
know."

And so, making his last dispositions, Captain Crawley,
who had seldom thought about anything but himself, until
the last few months of his life, when Love had obtained
the mastery over the dragoon, went through the various
items of his little catalogue of effects, striving to see how
they might be turned into money for his wife's benefit, in
case any accident should befall him. He pleased himself
by noting down with a pencil, in his big schoolboy
handwriting, the various items of his portable property which
might be sold for his widow's advantage as, for example,
"My double-barril by Manton, say 40 guineas; my driving
cloak, lined with sable fur, 50 pounds; my duelling pistols in
rosewood case (same which I shot Captain Marker),
20 pounds; my regulation saddle-holsters and housings; my
Laurie ditto," and so forth, over all of which articles he
made Rebecca the mistress.

Faithful to his plan of economy, the Captain dressed
himself in his oldest and shabbiest uniform and epaulets,
leaving the newest behind, under his wife's (or it might
be his widow's) guardianship. And this famous dandy of
Windsor and Hyde Park went off on his campaign with a
kit as modest as that of a sergeant, and with something
like a prayer on his lips for the woman he was leaving.
He took her up from the ground, and held her in his
arms for a minute, tight pressed against his strong-beating
heart. His face was purple and his eyes dim, as he put her
down and left her. He rode by his General's side, and
smoked his cigar in silence as they hastened after the
troops of the General's brigade, which preceded them;
and it was not until they were some miles on their way
that he left off twirling his moustache and broke silence.

And Rebecca, as we have said, wisely determined not to
give way to unavailing sentimentality on her husband's
departure. She waved him an adieu from the window, and
stood there for a moment looking out after he was gone.
The cathedral towers and the full gables of the quaint old
houses were just beginning to blush in the sunrise. There
had been no rest for her that night. She was still in her
pretty ball-dress, her fair hair hanging somewhat out of
curl on her neck, and the circles round her eyes dark with
watching. "What a fright I seem," she said, examining
herself in the glass, "and how pale this pink makes one
look!"  So she divested herself of this pink raiment; in
doing which a note fell out from her corsage, which she
picked up with a smile, and locked into her dressing-box.
And then she put her bouquet of the ball into a glass of
water, and went to bed, and slept very comfortably.

The town was quite quiet when she woke up at ten
o'clock, and partook of coffee, very requisite and
comforting after the exhaustion and grief of the morning's
occurrences.

This meal over, she resumed honest Rawdon's calculations
of the night previous, and surveyed her position.
Should the worst befall, all things considered, she was
pretty well to do. There were her own trinkets and trousseau,
in addition to those which her husband had left behind.
Rawdon's generosity, when they were first married,
has already been described and lauded. Besides these,
and the little mare, the General, her slave and worshipper,
had made her many very handsome presents, in the shape
of cashmere shawls bought at the auction of a bankrupt
French general's lady, and numerous tributes from the
jewellers' shops, all of which betokened her admirer's
taste and wealth. As for "tickers," as poor Rawdon called
watches, her apartments were alive with their clicking.
For, happening to mention one night that hers, which
Rawdon had given to her, was of English workmanship,
and went ill, on the very next morning there came to her
a little bijou marked Leroy, with a chain and cover
charmingly set with turquoises, and another signed Brequet,
which was covered with pearls, and yet scarcely bigger
than a half-crown. General Tufto had bought one, and
Captain Osborne had gallantly presented the other. Mrs.
Osborne had no watch, though, to do George justice, she
might have had one for the asking, and the Honourable
Mrs. Tufto in England had an old instrument of her
mother's that might have served for the plate-warming
pan which Rawdon talked about. If Messrs. Howell and
James were to publish a list of the purchasers of all the
trinkets which they sell, how surprised would some
families be: and if all these ornaments went to gentlemen's
lawful wives and daughters, what a profusion of jewellery
there would be exhibited in the genteelest homes of
Vanity Fair!

Every calculation made of these valuables Mrs. Rebecca
found, not without a pungent feeling of triumph and self-
satisfaction, that should circumstances occur, she might
reckon on six or seven hundred pounds at the very least,
to begin the world with; and she passed the morning
disposing, ordering, looking out, and locking up her
properties in the most agreeable manner. Among the notes
in Rawdon's pocket-book was a draft for twenty pounds
on Osborne's banker. This made her think about Mrs.
Osborne. "I will go and get the draft cashed," she said,
"and pay a visit afterwards to poor little Emmy." If this
is a novel without a hero, at least let us lay claim to a
heroine. No man in the British army which has marched
away, not the great Duke himself, could be more cool or
collected in the presence of doubts and difficulties, than
the indomitable little aide-de-camp's wife.

And there was another of our acquaintances who was
also to be left behind, a non-combatant, and whose emotions
and behaviour we have therefore a right to know.
This was our friend the ex-collector of Boggley Wollah,
whose rest was broken, like other people's, by the sounding
of the bugles in the early morning. Being a great
sleeper, and fond of his bed, it is possible he would have
snoozed on until his usual hour of rising in the forenoon,
in spite of all the drums, bugles, and bagpipes in the
British army, but for an interruption, which did not come
from George Osborne, who shared Jos's quarters with
him, and was as usual occupied too much with his own
affairs or with grief at parting with his wife, to think of
taking leave of his slumbering brother-in-law--it was not
George, we say, who interposed between Jos Sedley and
sleep, but Captain Dobbin, who came and roused him up,
insisting on shaking hands with him before his departure.

"Very kind of you," said Jos, yawning, and wishing
the Captain at the deuce.

"I--I didn't like to go off without saying good-bye, you
know," Dobbin said in a very incoherent manner; "because
you know some of us mayn't come back again, and
I like to see you all well, and--and that sort of thing, you
know."

"What do you mean?" Jos asked, rubbing his eyes. The
Captain did not in the least hear him or look at the stout
gentleman in the nightcap, about whom he professed to
have such a tender interest. The hypocrite was looking
and listening with all his might in the direction of George's
apartments, striding about the room, upsetting the chairs,
beating the tattoo, biting his nails, and showing other
signs of great inward emotion.

Jos had always had rather a mean opinion of the
Captain, and now began to think his courage was somewhat
equivocal. "What is it I can do for you, Dobbin?" he said,
in a sarcastic tone.

"I tell you what you can do," the Captain replied, coming
up to the bed; "we march in a quarter of an hour,
Sedley, and neither George nor I may ever come back.
Mind you, you are not to stir from this town until you
ascertain how things go. You are to stay here and watch
over your sister, and comfort her, and see that no harm
comes to her. If anything happens to George, remember
she has no one but you in the world to look to. If it goes
wrong with the army, you'll see her safe back to England;
and you will promise me on your word that you will
never desert her. I know you won't: as far as money goes,
you were always free enough with that. Do you want any?
I mean, have you enough gold to take you back to
England in case of a misfortune?"

"Sir," said Jos, majestically, "when I want money, I
know where to ask for it. And as for my sister, you
needn't tell me how I ought to behave to her."

"You speak like a man of spirit, Jos," the other answered
good-naturedly, "and I am glad that George can
leave her in such good hands. So I may give him your
word of honour, may I, that in case of extremity you
will stand by her?"

"Of course, of course," answered Mr. Jos, whose
generosity in money matters Dobbin estimated quite
correctly.

"And you'll see her safe out of Brussels in the event of
a defeat?"

"A defeat! D-- it, sir, it's impossible. Don't try and
frighten ME," the hero cried from his bed; and Dobbin's
mind was thus perfectly set at ease now that Jos had
spoken out so resolutely respecting his conduct to his
sister. "At least," thought the Captain, "there will be a
retreat secured for her in case the worst should ensue."

If Captain Dobbin expected to get any personal comfort
and satisfaction from having one more view of Amelia
before the regiment marched away, his selfishness was
punished just as such odious egotism deserved to be. The
door of Jos's bedroom opened into the sitting-room which
was common to the family party, and opposite this door
was that of Amelia's chamber. The bugles had wakened
everybody: there was no use in concealment now. George's
servant was packing in this room: Osborne coming in
and out of the contiguous bedroom, flinging to the man
such articles as he thought fit to carry on the campaign.
And presently Dobbin had the opportunity which his
heart coveted, and he got sight of Amelia's face once
more. But what a face it was! So white, so wild and
despair-stricken, that the remembrance of it haunted him
afterwards like a crime, and the sight smote him with
inexpressible pangs of longing and pity.

She was wrapped in a white morning dress, her hair
falling on her shoulders, and her large eyes fixed and
without light. By way of helping on the preparations for
the departure, and showing that she too could be useful
at a moment so critical, this poor soul had taken up a
sash of George's from the drawers whereon it lay, and
followed him to and fro with the sash in her hand, looking
on mutely as his packing proceeded. She came out and
stood, leaning at the wall, holding this sash against her
bosom, from which the heavy net of crimson dropped
like a large stain of blood. Our gentle-hearted Captain
felt a guilty shock as he looked at her. "Good God,"
thought he, "and is it grief like this I dared to pry into?"
And there was no help: no means to soothe and comfort
this helpless, speechless misery. He stood for a moment
and looked at her, powerless and torn with pity, as a
parent regards an infant in pain.

At last, George took Emmy's hand, and led her back
into the bedroom, from whence he came out alone. The
parting had taken place in that moment, and he was gone.

"Thank Heaven that is over," George thought, bounding
down the stair, his sword under his arm, as he ran
swiftly to the alarm ground, where the regiment was
mustered, and whither trooped men and officers hurrying
from their billets; his pulse was throbbing and his cheeks
flushed: the great game of war was going to be played,
and he one of the players. What a fierce excitement of
doubt, hope, and pleasure! What tremendous hazards of
loss or gain! What were all the games of chance he had
ever played compared to this one? Into all contests
requiring athletic skill and courage, the young man, from
his boyhood upwards, had flung himself with all his might.
The champion of his school and his regiment, the bravos
of his companions had followed him everywhere; from
the boys' cricket-match to the garrison-races, he had won
a hundred of triumphs; and wherever he went women
and men had admired and envied him. What qualities
are there for which a man gets so speedy a return of
applause, as those of bodily superiority, activity, and
valour? Time out of mind strength and courage have been
the theme of bards and romances; and from the story of
Troy down to to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier
for a hero. I wonder is it because men are cowards in
heart that they admire bravery so much, and place
military valour so far beyond every other quality for
reward and worship?

So, at the sound of that stirring call to battle, George
jumped away from the gentle arms in which he had been
dallying; not without a feeling of shame (although his
wife's hold on him had been but feeble), that he should
have been detained there so long. The same feeling of
eagerness and excitement was amongst all those friends
of his of whom we have had occasional glimpses, from
the stout senior Major, who led the regiment into action,
to little Stubble, the Ensign, who was to bear its colours
on that day.

The sun was just rising as the march began--it was
a gallant sight--the band led the column, playing the
regimental march--then came the Major in command,
riding upon Pyramus, his stout charger--then marched
the grenadiers, their Captain at their head; in the centre
were the colours, borne by the senior and junior Ensigns
--then George came marching at the head of his company.
He looked up, and smiled at Amelia, and passed
on; and even the sound of the music died away.

CHAPTER XXXI

In Which Jos Sedley Takes Care of His Sister

Thus all the superior officers being summoned on duty
elsewhere, Jos Sedley was left in command of the little
colony at Brussels, with Amelia invalided, Isidor, his
Belgian servant, and the bonne, who was maid-of-all-work
for the establishment, as a garrison under him. Though
he was disturbed in spirit, and his rest destroyed by
Dobbin's interruption and the occurrences of the morning,
Jos nevertheless remained for many hours in bed,
wakeful and rolling about there until his usual hour of
rising had arrived. The sun was high in the heavens, and
our gallant friends of the --th miles on their march,
before the civilian appeared in his flowered dressing-gown
at breakfast.

About George's absence, his brother-in-law was very
easy in mind. Perhaps Jos was rather pleased in his heart
that Osborne was gone, for during George's presence, the
other had played but a very secondary part in the
household, and Osborne did not scruple to show his contempt
for the stout civilian. But Emmy had always been good
and attentive to him. It was she who ministered to his
comforts, who superintended the dishes that he liked,
who walked or rode with him (as she had many, too
many, opportunities of doing, for where was George?)
and who interposed her sweet face between his anger
and her husband's scorn. Many timid remonstrances had
she uttered to George in behalf of her brother, but the
former in his trenchant way cut these entreaties short.
"I'm an honest man," he said, "and if I have a feeling
I show it, as an honest man will. How the deuce, my
dear, would you have me behave respectfully to such a
fool as your brother?"  So Jos was pleased with George's
absence. His plain hat, and gloves on a sideboard, and
the idea that the owner was away, caused Jos I don't
know what secret thrill of pleasure. "HE won't be
troubling me this morning," Jos thought, "with his
dandified airs and his impudence."

"Put the Captain's hat into the ante-room," he said
to Isidor, the servant.

"Perhaps he won't want it again," replied the lackey,
looking knowingly at his master. He hated George too,
whose insolence towards him was quite of the English
sort.

"And ask if Madame is coming to breakfast," Mr.
Sedley said with great majesty, ashamed to enter with a
servant upon the subject of his dislike for George. The
truth is, he had abused his brother to the valet a score
of times before.

Alas! Madame could not come to breakfast, and cut
the tartines that Mr. Jos liked. Madame was a great deal
too ill, and had been in a frightful state ever since her
husband's departure, so her bonne said. Jos showed his
sympathy by pouring her out a large cup of tea It was
his way of exhibiting kindness: and he improved on this;
he not only sent her breakfast, but he bethought him
what delicacies she would most like for dinner.

Isidor, the valet, had looked on very sulkily, while
Osborne's servant was disposing of his master's baggage
previous to the Captain's departure: for in the first place
he hated Mr. Osborne, whose conduct to him, and to
all inferiors, was generally overbearing (nor does the
continental domestic like to be treated with insolence as
our own better-tempered servants do), and secondly, he
was angry that so many valuables should be removed
from under his hands, to fall into other people's possession
when the English discomfiture should arrive. Of this
defeat he and a vast number of other persons in Brussels
and Belgium did not make the slightest doubt. The almost
universal belief was, that the Emperor would divide
the Prussian and English armies, annihilate one after the
other, and march into Brussels before three days were
over: when all the movables of his present masters, who
would be killed, or fugitives, or prisoners, would lawfully
become the property of Monsieur Isidor.

As he helped Jos through his toilsome and complicated
daily toilette, this faithful servant would calculate what
he should do with the very articles with which he was
decorating his master's person. He would make a present
of the silver essence-bottles and toilet knicknacks to a
young lady of whom he was fond; and keep the English
cutlery and the large ruby pin for himself. It would
look very smart upon one of the fine frilled shirts, which,
with the gold-laced cap and the frogged frock coat, that
might easily be cut down to suit his shape, and the Captain's
gold-headed cane, and the great double ring with
the rubies, which he would have made into a pair of
beautiful earrings, he calculated would make a perfect
Adonis of himself, and render Mademoiselle Reine an
easy prey. "How those sleeve-buttons will suit me!"
thought he, as he fixed a pair on the fat pudgy wrists of
Mr. Sedley. "I long for sleeve-buttons; and the Captain's
boots with brass spurs, in the next room, corbleu! what
an effect they will make in the Allee Verte!" So while
Monsieur Isidor with bodily fingers was holding on to his
master's nose, and shaving the lower part of Jos's face,
his imagination was rambling along the Green Avenue,
dressed out in a frogged coat and lace, and in company
with Mademoiselle Reine; he was loitering in spirit on
the banks, and examining the barges sailing slowly under
the cool shadows of the trees by the canal, or refreshing
himself with a mug of Faro at the bench of a beer-house
on the road to Laeken.

But Mr. Joseph Sedley, luckily for his own peace, no
more knew what was passing in his domestic's mind than
the respected reader, and I suspect what John or Mary,
whose wages we pay, think of ourselves. What our
servants think of us!--Did we know what our intimates and
dear relations thought of us, we should live in a world
that we should be glad to quit, and in a frame of mind
and a constant terror, that would be perfectly unbearable.
So Jos's man was marking his victim down, as you
see one of Mr. Paynter's assistants in Leadenhall Street
ornament an unconscious turtle with a placard on which
is written, "Soup to-morrow."

Amelia's attendant was much less selfishly disposed.
Few dependents could come near that kind and gentle
creature without paying their usual tribute of loyalty
and affection to her sweet and affectionate nature. And
it is a fact that Pauline, the cook, consoled her mistress
more than anybody whom she saw on this wretched
morning; for when she found how Amelia remained for hours,
silent, motionless, and haggard, by the windows in which
she had placed herself to watch the last bayonets of the
column as it marched away, the honest girl took the
lady's hand, and said, Tenez, Madame, est-ce qu'il n'est
pas aussi a l'armee, mon homme a moi? with which
she burst into tears, and Amelia falling into her arms,
did likewise, and so each pitied and soothed the other.

Several times during the forenoon Mr. Jos's Isidor
went from his lodgings into the town, and to the gates
of the hotels and lodging-houses round about the Parc,
where the English were congregated, and there mingled
with other valets, couriers, and lackeys, gathered such
news as was abroad, and brought back bulletins for his
master's information. Almost all these gentlemen were in
heart partisans of the Emperor, and had their opinions
about the speedy end of the campaign. The Emperor's
proclamation from Avesnes had been distributed
everywhere plentifully in Brussels. "Soldiers!"  it said, "this
is the anniversary of Marengo and Friedland, by which the
destinies of Europe were twice decided. Then, as after
Austerlitz, as after Wagram, we were too generous. We
believed in the oaths and promises of princes whom we
suffered to remain upon their thrones. Let us march once
more to meet them. We and they, are we not still the
same men? Soldiers! these same Prussians who are so
arrogant to-day, were three to one against you at Jena,
and six to one at Montmirail. Those among you who
were prisoners in England can tell their comrades what
frightful torments they suffered on board the English
hulks. Madmen! a moment of prosperity has blinded
them, and if they enter into France it will be to find a
grave there!"  But the partisans of the French prophesied
a more speedy extermination of the Emperor's enemies
than this; and it was agreed on all hands that Prussians
and British would never return except as prisoners in the
rear of the conquering army.

These opinions in the course of the day were brought
to operate upon Mr. Sedley. He was told that the Duke
of Wellington had gone to try and rally his army, the
advance of which had been utterly crushed the night
before.

"Crushed, psha!" said Jos, whose heart was pretty
stout at breakfast-time. "The Duke has gone to beat the
Emperor as he has beaten all his generals before."

"His papers are burned, his effects are removed, and his
quarters are being got ready for the Duke of Dalmatia,"
Jos's informant replied. "I had it from his own maitre
d'hotel. Milor Duc de Richemont's people are packing
up everything. His Grace has fled already, and the
Duchess is only waiting to see the plate packed to join the
King of France at Ostend."

"The King of France is at Ghent, fellow," replied Jos,
affecting incredulity.

"He fled last night to Bruges, and embarks today from
Ostend. The Duc de Berri is taken prisoner. Those who
wish to be safe had better go soon, for the dykes will
be opened to-morrow, and who can fly when the whole
country is under water?"

"Nonsense, sir, we are three to one, sir, against any
force Boney can bring into the field," Mr. Sedley
objected; "the Austrians and the Russians are on their
march. He must, he shall be crushed," Jos said, slapping
his hand on the table.

"The Prussians were three to one at Jena, and he
took their army and kingdom in a week. They were
six to one at Montmirail, and he scattered them like sheep.
The Austrian army is coming, but with the Empress and
the King of Rome at its head; and the Russians, bah!
the Russians will withdraw. No quarter is to be given
to the English, on account of their cruelty to our braves
on board the infamous pontoons. Look here, here it is
in black and white. Here's the proclamation of his
Majesty the Emperor and King," said the now declared
partisan of Napoleon, and taking the document from his
pocket, Isidor sternly thrust it into his master's face,
and already looked upon the frogged coat and valuables
as his own spoil.

Jos was, if not seriously alarmed as yet, at least
considerably disturbed in mind. "Give me my coat and cap,
sir, said he, "and follow me. I will go myself and learn
the truth of these reports." Isidor was furious as Jos put
on the braided frock. "Milor had better.not wear that
military coat," said he; "the Frenchmen have sworn not
to give quarter to a single British soldier."

"Silence, sirrah!" said Jos, with a resolute countenance
still, and thrust his arm into the sleeve with indomitable
resolution, in the performance of which heroic act he
was found by Mrs. Rawdon Crawley, who at this juncture
came up to visit Amelia, and entered without ringing
at the antechamber door.

Rebecca was dressed very neatly and smartly, as usual:
her quiet sleep after Rawdon's departure had refreshed
her, and her pink smiling cheeks were quite pleasant to
look at, in a town and on a day when everybody else's
countenance wore the appearance of the deepest anxiety
and gloom. She laughed at the attitude in which Jos was
discovered, and the struggles and convulsions with which
the stout gentleman thrust himself into the braided coat.

"Are you preparing to join the army, Mr. Joseph?"
she said. "Is there to be nobody left in Brussels to
protect us poor women?"  Jos succeeded in plunging into
the coat, and came forward blushing and stuttering out
excuses to his fair visitor. "How was she after the events
of the morning--after the fatigues of the ball the night
before?"  Monsieur Isidor disappeared into his master's
adjacent bedroom, bearing off the flowered dressing-gown.

"How good of you to ask," said she, pressing one of
his hands in both her own. "How cool and collected you
look when everybody else is frightened! How is our dear
little Emmy? It must have been an awful, awful parting."

"Tremendous," Jos said.

"You men can bear anything," replied the lady. "Parting
or danger are nothing to you. Own now that you
were going to join the army and leave us to our fate.
I know you were--something tells me you were. I was
so frightened, when the thought came into my head (for
I do sometimes think of you when I am alone, Mr.
Joseph), that I ran off immediately to beg and entreat
you not to fly from us."

This speech might be interpreted, "My dear sir, should
an accident befall the army, and a retreat be necessary,
you have a very comfortable carriage, in which I
propose to take a seat." I don't know whether Jos
understood the words in this sense. But he was profoundly
mortified by the lady's inattention to him during their
stay at Brussels. He had never been presented to any
of Rawdon Crawley's great acquaintances: he had scarcely
been invited to Rebecca's parties; for he was too timid
to play much, and his presence bored George and Rawdon
equally, who neither of them, perhaps, liked to have a
witness of the amusements in which the pair chose to
indulge. "Ah!" thought Jos, "now she wants me she
comes to me. When there is nobody else in the way she
can think about old Joseph Sedley!"  But besides these
doubts he felt flattered at the idea Rebecca expressed
of his courage.

He blushed a good deal, and put on an air of importance.
"I should like to see the action," he said. "Every
man of any spirit would, you know. I've seen a little
service in India, but nothing on this grand scale."

"You men would sacrifice anything for a pleasure,"
Rebecca answered. "Captain Crawley left me this morning
as gay as if he were going to a hunting party. What
does he care? What do any of you care for the agonies
and tortures of a poor forsaken woman? (I wonder
whether he could really have been going to the troops,
this great lazy gourmand?)  Oh! dear Mr. Sedley, I have
come to you for comfort--for consolation. I have been
on my knees all the morning. I tremble at the frightful
danger into which our husbands, our friends, our brave
troops and allies, are rushing. And I come here for shelter,
and find another of my friends--the last remaining to
me--bent upon plunging into the dreadful scene!"

"My dear madam," Jos replied, now beginning to be
quite soothed, "don't be alarmed. I only said I should
like to go--what Briton would not? But my duty keeps
me here: I can't leave that poor creature in the next
room." And he pointed with his finger to the door of
the chamber in which Amelia was.

"Good noble brother!" Rebecca said, putting her
handkerchief to her eyes, and smelling the eau-de-cologne
with which it was scented. "I have done you injustice:
you have got a heart. I thought you had not."

"O, upon my honour!" Jos said, making a motion as
if he would lay his hand upon the spot in question. "You
do me injustice, indeed you do--my dear Mrs. Crawley."

"I do, now your heart is true to your sister. But I
remember two years ago--when it was false to me!"
Rebecca said, fixing her eyes upon him for an instant, and
then turning away into the window.

Jos blushed violently. That organ which he was
accused by Rebecca of not possessing began to thump
tumultuously. He recalled the days when he had fled from
her, and the passion which had once inflamed him--the
days when he had driven her in his curricle: when she
had knit the green purse for him: when he had sate
enraptured gazing at her white arms and bright eyes.

"I know you think me ungrateful," Rebecca continued,
coming out of the window, and once more looking at
him and addressing him in a low tremulous voice. "Your
coldness, your averted looks, your manner when we have
met of late--when I came in just now, all proved it to
me. But were there no reasons why I should avoid you?
Let your own heart answer that question. Do you think
my husband was too much inclined to welcome you?
The only unkind words I have ever had from him (I
will do Captain Crawley that justice) have been about
you--and most cruel, cruel words they were."

"Good gracious! what have I done?" asked Jos in a
flurry of pleasure and perplexity; "what have I done--
to--to--?"

"Is jealousy nothing?" said Rebecca. "He makes me
miserable about you. And whatever it might have been
once--my heart is all his. I am innocent now. Am I
not, Mr. Sedley?"

All Jos's blood tingled with delight, as he surveyed
this victim to his attractions. A few adroit words, one
or two knowing tender glances of the eyes, and his heart
was inflamed again and his doubts and suspicions
forgotten. From Solomon downwards, have not wiser men
than he been cajoled and befooled by women? "If the
worst comes to the worst," Becky thought, "my retreat
is secure; and I have a right-hand seat in the barouche."

There is no knowing into what declarations of love
and ardour the tumultuous passions of Mr. Joseph
might have led him, if Isidor the valet had not made
his reappearance at this minute, and begun to busy
himself about the domestic affairs. Jos, who was just going
to gasp out an avowal, choked almost with the emotion
that he was obliged to restrain. Rebecca too bethought
her that it was time she should go in and comfort her
dearest Amelia. "Au revoir," she said, kissing her hand
to Mr. Joseph, and tapped gently at the door of his
sister's apartment. As she entered and closed the door
on herself, he sank down in a chair, and gazed and
sighed and puffed portentously. "That coat is very tight
for Milor," Isidor said, still having his eye on the frogs;
but his master heard him not: his thoughts were
elsewhere: now glowing, maddening, upon the contemplation
of the enchanting Rebecca: anon shrinking guiltily
before the vision of the jealous Rawdon Crawley, with his
curling, fierce mustachios, and his terrible duelling pistols
loaded and cocked.

Rebecca's appearance struck Amelia with terror, and
made her shrink back. It recalled her to the world and
the remembrance of yesterday. In the overpowering fears
about to-morrow she had forgotten Rebecca--jealousy--
everything except that her husband was gone and was
in danger. Until this dauntless worldling came in and
broke the spell, and lifted the latch, we too have
forborne to enter into that sad chamber. How long had that
poor girl been on her knees! what hours of speechless
prayer and bitter prostration had she passed there! The
war-chroniclers who write brilliant stories of fight and
triumph scarcely tell us of these. These are too mean
parts of the pageant: and you don't hear widows' cries
or mothers' sobs in the midst of the shouts and jubilation
in the great Chorus of Victory. And yet when was
the time that such have not cried out: heart-broken,
humble protestants, unheard in the uproar of the triumph!

After the first movement of terror in Amelia's mind
--when Rebecca's green eyes lighted upon her, and
rustling in her fresh silks and brilliant ornaments, the latter
tripped up with extended arms to embrace her--a feeling
of anger succeeded, and from being deadly pale before,
her face flushed up red, and she returned Rebecca's look
after a moment with a steadiness which surprised and
somewhat abashed her rival.

"Dearest Amelia, you are very unwell," the visitor said,
putting forth her hand to take Amelia's. "What is it?
I could not rest until I knew how you were."

Amelia drew back her hand--never since her life
began had that gentle soul refused to believe or to
answer any demonstration of good-will or affection. But
she drew back her hand, and trembled all over. "Why
are you here, Rebecca?" she said, still looking at her
solemnly with her large eyes. These glances troubled her
visitor.

"She must have seen him give me the letter at the
ball," Rebecca thought. "Don't be agitated, dear Amelia,"
she said, looking down. "I came but to see if I could--
if you were well."

"Are you well?" said Amelia. "I dare say you are.
You don't love your husband. You would not be here if
you did. Tell me, Rebecca, did I ever do you anything
but kindness?"

"Indeed, Amelia, no," the other said, still hanging
down her head.

"When you were quite poor, who was it that befriended
you? Was I not a sister to you? You saw us
all in happier days before he married me. I was all in
all then to him; or would he have given up his fortune,
his family, as he nobly did to make me happy? Why did
you come between my love and me? Who sent you to
separate those whom God joined, and take my darling's
heart from me-- my own husband? Do you think you
could I love him as I did? His love was everything to me.
You knew it, and wanted to rob me of it. For shame,
Rebecca; bad and wicked woman--false friend and false
wife."

"Amelia, I protest before God, I have done my
husband no wrong," Rebecca said, turning from her.

"Have you done me no wrong, Rebecca? You did not
succeed, but you tried. Ask your heart if you did not."

She knows nothing, Rebecca thought.

"He came back to me. I knew he would. I knew that
no falsehood, no flattery, could keep him from me long.
I knew he would come. I prayed so that he should."

The poor girl spoke these words with a spirit and
volubility which Rebecca had never before seen in her,
and before which the latter was quite dumb. "But what
have I done to you," she continued in a more pitiful tone,
"that you should try and take him from me? I had him
but for six weeks. You might have spared me those,
Rebecca. And yet, from the very first day of our wedding,
you came and blighted it. Now he is gone, are you come
to see how unhappy I am?" she continued. "You made
me wretched enough for the past fortnight: you might
have spared me to-day."

"I--I never came here," interposed Rebecca, with
unlucky truth.

"No. You didn't come. You took him away. Are you
come to fetch him from me?" she continued in a wilder
tone. "He was here, but he is gone now. There on that
very sofa he sate. Don't touch it. We sate and talked
there. I was on his knee, and my arms were round his
neck, and we said 'Our Father.' Yes, he was here: and
they came and took him away, but he promised me to
come back."

"He will come back, my dear," said Rebecca, touched
in spite of herself.

"Look," said Amelia, "this is his sash--isn't it a pretty
colour?'' and she took up the fringe and kissed it. She
had tied it round her waist at some part of the day. She
had forgotten her anger, her jealousy, the very presence
of her rival seemingly. For she walked silently and almost
with a smile on her face, towards the bed, and began to
smooth down George's pillow.

Rebecca walked, too, silently away. "How is Amelia?"
asked Jos, who still held his position in the chair.

"There should be somebody with her," said Rebecca.
"I think she is very unwell": and she went away with a
very grave face, refusing Mr. Sedley's entreaties that she
would stay and partake of the early dinner which he had
ordered.

Rebecca was of a good-natured and obliging disposition;
and she liked Amelia rather than otherwise. Even
her hard words, reproachful as they were, were
complimentary--the groans of a person stinging under defeat.
Meeting Mrs. O'Dowd, whom the Dean's sermons had
by no means comforted, and who was walking very
disconsolately in the Parc, Rebecca accosted the latter,
rather to the surprise of the Major's wife, who was not
accustomed to such marks of politeness from Mrs.
Rawdon Crawley, and informing her that poor little Mrs.
Osborne was in a desperate condition, and almost mad
with grief, sent off the good-natured Irishwoman straight
to see if she could console her young favourite.

"I've cares of my own enough," Mrs. O'Dowd said,
gravely, "and I thought poor Amelia would be little
wanting for company this day. But if she's so bad as you
say, and you can't attend to her, who used to be so
fond of her, faith I'll see if I can be of service. And so
good marning to ye, Madam"; with which speech and a
toss of her head, the lady of the repayther took a
farewell of Mrs. Crawley, whose company she by no means
courted.

Becky watched her marching off, with a smile on her
lip. She had the keenest sense of humour, and the
Parthian look which the retreating Mrs. O'Dowd flung
over her shoulder almost upset Mrs. Crawley's gravity.
"My service to ye, me fine Madam, and I'm glad to see
ye so cheerful," thought Peggy. "It's not YOU that will cry
your eyes out with grief, anyway." And with this she
passed on, and speedily found her way to Mrs. Osborne's
lodgings.

The poor soul was still at the bedside, where Rebecca
had left her, and stood almost crazy with grief. The
Major's wife, a stronger-minded woman, endeavoured her
best to comfort her young friend. "You must bear up,
Amelia, dear," she said kindly, "for he mustn't find you
ill when he sends for you after the victory. It's not you
are the only woman that are in the hands of God this
day."

"I know that. I am very wicked, very weak," Amelia
said. She knew her own weakness well enough. The
presence of the more resolute friend checked it, however; and
she was the better of this control and company. They
went on till two o'clock; their hearts were with the column
as it marched farther and farther away. Dreadful doubt
and anguish--prayers and fears and griefs unspeakable--
followed the regiment. It was the women's tribute to the
war. It taxes both alike, and takes the blood of the men,
and the tears of the women.

At half-past two, an event occurred of daily importance
to Mr. Joseph: the dinner-hour arrived. Warriors
may fight and perish, but he must dine. He came into
Amelia's room to see if he could coax her to share that
meal. "Try," said he; "the soup is very good. Do try,
Emmy," and he kissed her hand. Except when she was
married, he had not done so much for years before. "You
are very good and kind, Joseph," she said. "Everybody
is, but, if you please, I will stay in my room to-day."

The savour of the soup, however, was agreeable to
Mrs. O'Dowd's nostrils: and she thought she would bear
Mr. Jos company. So the two sate down to their meal.
"God bless the meat," said the Major's wife, solemnly:
she was thinking of her honest Mick, riding at the head
of his regiment: " 'Tis but a bad dinner those poor
boys will get to-day," she said, with a sigh, and then,
like a philosopher, fell to.

Jos's spirits rose with his meal. He would drink the
regiment's health; or, indeed, take any other excuse to
indulge in a glass of champagne. "We'll drink to O'Dowd
and the brave --th," said he, bowing gallantly to his
guest. "Hey, Mrs. O'Dowd? Fill Mrs. O'Dowd's glass,
Isidor."

But all of a sudden, Isidor started, and the Major's
wife laid down her knife and fork. The windows of the
room were open, and looked southward, and a dull distant
sound came over the sun-lighted roofs from that
direction. ''What is it?" said Jos. "Why don't you pour, you
rascal?"

"Cest le feu!" said Isidor, running to the balcony.

"God defend us; it's cannon!" Mrs. O'Dowd cried,
starting up, and followed too to the window. A thousand
pale and anxious faces might have been seen looking
from other casements. And presently it seemed as if the
whole population of the city rushed into the streets.

CHAPTER XXXII

In Which Jos Takes Flight, and the War Is Brought to a Close

We of peaceful London City have never beheld--and
please God never shall witness--such a scene of hurry
and alarm, as that which Brussels presented. Crowds
rushed to the Namur gate, from which direction the noise
proceeded, and many rode along the level chaussee, to
be in advance of any intelligence from the army. Each
man asked his neighbour for news; and even great
English lords and ladies condescended to speak to persons
whom they did not know. The friends of the French went
abroad, wild with excitement, and prophesying the
triumph of their Emperor. The merchants closed their
shops, and came out to swell the general chorus of alarm
and clamour. Women rushed to the churches, and
crowded the chapels, and knelt and prayed on the flags
and steps. The dull sound of the cannon went on rolling,
rolling. Presently carriages with travellers began to leave
the town, galloping away by the Ghent barrier. The
prophecies of the French partisans began to pass for
facts. "He has cut the armies in two," it was said. "He is
marching straight on Brussels. He will overpower the
English, and be here to-night." "He will overpower the
English," shrieked Isidor to his master, "and will be here
to-night." The man bounded in and out from the lodgings
to the street, always returning with some fresh particulars
of disaster. Jos's face grew paler and paler. Alarm began
to take entire possession of the stout civilian. All the
champagne he drank brought no courage to him. Before
sunset he was worked up to such a pitch of nervousness
as gratified his friend Isidor to behold, who now counted
surely upon the spoils of the owner of the laced coat.

The women were away all this time. After hearing
the firing for a moment, the stout Major's wife bethought
her of her friend in the next chamber, and ran in to watch,
and if possible to console, Amelia. The idea that she had
that helpless and gentle creature to protect, gave
additional strength to the natural courage of the honest
Irishwoman. She passed five hours by her friend's side,
sometimes in remonstrance, sometimes talking cheerfully,
oftener in silence and terrified mental supplication. "I
never let go her hand once," said the stout lady
afterwards, "until after sunset, when the firing was over."
Pauline, the bonne, was on her knees at church hard by,
praying for son homme a elle.

When the noise of the cannonading was over, Mrs.
O'Dowd issued out of Amelia's room into the parlour
adjoining, where Jos sate with two emptied flasks, and
courage entirely gone. Once or twice he had ventured into
his sister's bedroom, looking very much alarmed, and
as if he would say something. But the Major's wife kept
her place, and he went away without disburthening
himself of his speech. He was ashamed to tell her that he
wanted to fly.

But when she made her appearance in the dining-room,
where he sate in the twilight in the cheerless company
of his empty champagne bottles, he began to open his
mind to her.

"Mrs. O'Dowd," he said, "hadn't you better get Amelia
ready?"

"Are you going to take her out for a walk?" said the
Major's lady; "sure she's too weak to stir."

"I--I've ordered the carriage," he said, "and--and
post-horses; Isidor is gone for them," Jos continued.

"What do you want with driving to-night?" answered
the lady. "Isn't she better on her bed? I've just got her
to lie down."

"Get her up," said Jos; "she must get up, I say": and
he stamped his foot energetically. "I say the horses are
ordered--yes, the horses are ordered. It's all over, and--"

"And what?" asked Mrs. O'Dowd.

"I'm off for Ghent," Jos answered. "Everybody is
going; there's a place for you! We shall start in half-an-
hour."

The Major's wife looked at him with infinite scorn. "I
don't move till O'Dowd gives me the route," said she.
"You may go if you like, Mr. Sedley; but, faith, Amelia
and I stop here."

"She SHALL go," said Jos, with another stamp of his
foot. Mrs. O'Dowd put herself with arms akimbo before
the bedroom door.

"Is it her mother you're going to take her to?" she
said; "or do you want to go to Mamma yourself, Mr.
Sedley? Good marning--a pleasant journey to ye, sir.
Bon voyage, as they say, and take my counsel, and shave
off them mustachios, or they'll bring you into mischief."

"D--n!" yelled out Jos, wild with fear, rage, and
mortification; and Isidor came in at this juncture, swearing in
his turn. "Pas de chevaux, sacre bleu!" hissed out the
furious domestic. All the horses were gone. Jos was
not the only man in Brussels seized with panic that day.

But Jos's fears, great and cruel as they were already,
were destined to increase to an almost frantic pitch
before the night was over. It has been mentioned how
Pauline, the bonne, had son homme a elle also in the
ranks of the army that had gone out to meet the Emperor
Napoleon. This lover was a native of Brussels, and a
Belgian hussar. The troops of his nation signalised
themselves in this war for anything but courage, and young
Van Cutsum, Pauline's admirer, was too good a soldier
to disobey his Colonel's orders to run away. Whilst in
garrison at Brussels young Regulus (he had been born in
the revolutionary times) found his great comfort, and
passed almost all his leisure moments, in Pauline's
kitchen; and it was with pockets and holsters crammed
full of good things from her larder, that he had take
leave of his weeping sweetheart, to proceed upon the
campaign a few days before.

As far as his regiment was concerned, this campaign
was over now. They had formed a part of the division
under the command of his Sovereign apparent, the Prince
of Orange, and as respected length of swords and
mustachios, and the richness of uniform and equipments,
Regulus and his comrades looked to be as gallant a body
of men as ever trumpet sounded for.

When Ney dashed upon the advance of the allied
troops, carrying one position after the other, until the
arrival of the great body of the British army from
Brussels changed the aspect of the combat of Quatre Bras,
the squadrons among which Regulus rode showed the
greatest activity in retreating before the French, and were
dislodged from one post and another which they occupied
with perfect alacrity on their part. Their movements
were only checked by the advance of the British in their
rear. Thus forced to halt, the enemy's cavalry (whose
bloodthirsty obstinacy cannot be too severely
reprehended) had at length an opportunity of coming to close
quarters with the brave Belgians before them; who
preferred to encounter the British rather than the French,
and at once turning tail rode through the English
regiments that were behind them, and scattered in all
directions. The regiment in fact did not exist any more. It was
nowhere. It had no head-quarters. Regulus found himself
galloping many miles from the field of action, entirely
alone; and whither should he fly for refuge so naturally
as to that kitchen and those faithful arms in which
Pauline had so often welcomed him?

At some ten o'clock the clinking of a sabre might have
been heard up the stair of the house where the Osbornes
occupied a story in the continental fashion. A knock
might have been heard at the kitchen door; and poor
Pauline, come back from church, fainted almost with
terror as she opened it and saw before her her haggard
hussar. He looked as pale as the midnight dragoon who
came to disturb Leonora. Pauline would have screamed,
but that her cry would have called her masters, and
discovered her friend. She stifled her scream, then, and
leading her hero into the kitchen, gave him beer, and
the choice bits from the dinner, which Jos had not had
the heart to taste. The hussar showed he was no ghost by
the prodigious quantity of flesh and beer which he
devoured--and during the mouthfuls he told his tale of
disaster.

His regiment had performed prodigies of courage, and
had withstood for a while the onset of the whole French
army. But they were overwhelmed at last, as was the
whole British army by this time. Ney destroyed each
regiment as it came up. The Belgians in vain interposed to
prevent the butchery of the English. The Brunswickers
were routed and had fled--their Duke was killed. It was
a general debacle. He sought to drown his sorrow for
the defeat in floods of beer.

Isidor, who had come into the kitchen, heard the
conversation and rushed out to inform his master. "It is
all over," he shrieked to Jos. "Milor Duke is a prisoner;
the Duke of Brunswick is killed; the British army is in
full flight; there is only one man escaped, and he is in the
kitchen now--come and hear him." So Jos tottered into
that apartment where Regulus still sate on the kitchen
table, and clung fast to his flagon of beer. In the best
French which he could muster, and which was in sooth
of a very ungrammatical sort, Jos besought the hussar to
tell his tale. The disasters deepened as Regulus spoke. He
was the only man of his regiment not slain on the field.
He had seen the Duke of Brunswick fall, the black
hussars fly, the Ecossais pounded down by the cannon.
"And the --th?" gasped Jos.

"Cut in pieces," said the hussar--upon which Pauline
cried out, "O my mistress, ma bonne petite dame," went
off fairly into hysterics, and filled the house with her
screams.

Wild with terror, Mr. Sedley knew not how or where
to seek for safety. He rushed from the kitchen back to
the sitting-room, and cast an appealing look at Amelia's
door, which Mrs. O'Dowd had closed and locked in his
face; but he remembered how scornfully the latter had
received him, and after pausing and listening for a brief
space at the door, he left it, and resolved to go into the
street, for the first time that day. So, seizing a candle, he
looked about for his gold-laced cap, and found it lying in its
usual place, on a console-table, in the anteroom, placed
before a mirror at which Jos used to coquet, always
giving his side-locks a twirl, and his cap the proper cock
over his eye, before he went forth to make appearance in
public. Such is the force of habit, that even in the midst
of his terror he began mechanically to twiddle with his
hair, and arrange the cock of his hat. Then he looked
amazed at the pale face in the glass before him, and
especially at his mustachios, which had attained a rich
growth in the course of near seven weeks, since they had
come into the world. They WILL mistake me for a military
man, thought he, remembering Isidor's warning as
to the massacre with which all the defeated British army
was threatened; and staggering back to his bedchamber,
he began wildly pulling the bell which summoned his
valet.

Isidor answered that summons. Jos had sunk in a chair
--he had torn off his neckcloths, and turned down his
collars, and was sitting with both his hands lifted to his
throat.

"Coupez-moi, Isidor," shouted he; "vite! Coupez-moi!"

Isidor thought for a moment he had gone mad, and
that he wished his valet to cut his throat.

"Les moustaches," gasped Joe; "les moustaches--
coupy, rasy, vite!"--his French was of this sort--voluble,
as we have said, but not remarkable for grammar.

Isidor swept off the mustachios in no time with the
razor, and heard with inexpressible delight his master's
orders that he should fetch a hat and a plain coat. "Ne
porty ploo--habit militair--bonn--bonny a voo, prenny
dehors"--were Jos's words--the coat and cap were at
last his property.

This gift being made, Jos selected a plain black coat
and waistcoat from his stock, and put on a large white
neckcloth, and a plain beaver. If he could have got a
shovel hat he would have worn it. As it was, you would
have fancied he was a flourishing, large parson of the
Church of England.

"Venny maintenong," he continued, "sweevy--ally--
party--dong la roo." And so having said, he plunged
swiftly down the stairs of the house, and passed into the
street.

Although Regulus had vowed that he was the only
man of his regiment or of the allied army, almost, who
had escaped being cut to pieces by Ney, it appeared
that his statement was incorrect, and that a good number
more of the supposed victims had survived the massacre.
Many scores of Regulus's comrades had found their way
back to Brussels, and all agreeing that they had run
away--filled the whole town with an idea of the defeat
of the allies. The arrival of the French was expected
hourly; the panic continued, and preparations for flight
went on everywhere. No horses! thought Jos, in terror.
He made Isidor inquire of scores of persons, whether
they had any to lend or sell, and his heart sank within
him, at the negative answers returned everywhere. Should
he take the journey on foot? Even fear could not render
that ponderous body so active.

Almost all the hotels occupied by the English in Brussels
face the Parc, and Jos wandered irresolutely about
in this quarter, with crowds of other people, oppressed as
he was by fear and curiosity. Some families he saw more
happy than himself, having discovered a team of horses,
and rattling through the streets in retreat; others again
there were whose case was like his own, and who
could not for any bribes or entreaties procure the
necessary means of flight. Amongst these would-be fugitives,
Jos remarked the Lady Bareacres and her daughter, who
sate in their carriage in the porte-cochere of their hotel,
all their imperials packed, and the only drawback to
whose flight was the same want of motive power which
kept Jos stationary.

Rebecca Crawley occupied apartments in this hotel;
and had before this period had sundry hostile meetings
with the ladies of the Bareacres family. My Lady
Bareacres cut Mrs. Crawley on the stairs when they met
by chance; and in all places where the latter's name was
mentioned, spoke perseveringly ill of her neighbour. The
Countess was shocked at the familiarity of General Tufto
with the aide-de-camp's wife. The Lady Blanche avoided
her as if she had been an infectious disease. Only the
Earl himself kept up a sly occasional acquaintance with
her, when out of the jurisdiction of his ladies.

Rebecca had her revenge now upon these insolent
enemies. If became known in the hotel that Captain
Crawley's horses had been left behind, and when the
panic began, Lady Bareacres condescended to send her
maid to the Captain's wife with her Ladyship's compliments,
and a desire to know the price of Mrs. Crawley's
horses. Mrs. Crawley returned a note with her compliments,
and an intimation that it was not her custom to
transact bargains with ladies' maids.

This curt reply brought the Earl in person to Becky's
apartment; but he could get no more success than the
first ambassador. "Send a lady's maid to ME!" Mrs.
Crawley cried in great anger; "why didn't my Lady
Bareacres tell me to go and saddle the horses! Is it her
Ladyship that wants to escape, or her Ladyship's femme
de chambre?"  And this was all the answer that the Earl
bore back to his Countess.

What will not necessity do? The Countess herself
actually came to wait upon Mrs. Crawley on the failure
of her second envoy. She entreated her to name her own
price; she even offered to invite Becky to Bareacres
House, if the latter would but give her the means of
returning to that residence. Mrs. Crawley sneered at her.

"I don't want to be waited on by bailiffs in livery," she
said; "you will never get back though most probably--
at least not you and your diamonds together. The French
will have those They will be here in two hours, and I
shall be half way to Ghent by that time. I would not sell
you my horses, no, not for the two largest diamonds that
your Ladyship wore at the ball."  Lady Bareacres trembled
with rage and terror. The diamonds were sewed into her
habit, and secreted in my Lord's padding and boots.
"Woman, the diamonds are at the banker's, and I WILL
have the horses," she said. Rebecca laughed in her face.
The infuriate Countess went below, and sate in her
carriage; her maid, her courier, and her husband were sent
once more through the town, each to look for cattle; and
woe betide those who came last! Her Ladyship was
resolved on departing the very instant the horses arrived
from any quarter--with her husband or without him.

Rebecca had the pleasure of seeing her Ladyship in
the horseless carriage, and keeping her eyes fixed upon
her, and bewailing, in the loudest tone of voice, the
Countess's perplexities. "Not to be able to get horses!"
she said, "and to have all those diamonds sewed into the
carriage cushions! What a prize it will be for the French
when they come!--the carriage and the diamonds, I mean;
not the lady!"  She gave this information to the landlord,
to the servants, to the guests, and the innumerable
stragglers about the courtyard. Lady Bareacres could have
shot her from the carriage window.

It was while enjoying the humiliation of her enemy that
Rebecca caught sight of Jos, who made towards her
directly he perceived her.

That altered, frightened, fat face, told his secret well
enough. He too wanted to fly, and was on the look-out
for the means of escape. "HE shall buy my horses,"
thought Rebecca, "and I'll ride the mare."

Jos walked up to his friend, and put the question for
the hundredth time during the past hour, "Did she know
where horses were to be had?"

"What, YOU fly?" said Rebecca, with a laugh. "I
thought you were the champion of all the ladies, Mr.
Sedley."

"I--I'm not a military man," gasped he.

"And Amelia?--Who is to protect that poor little sister
of yours?" asked Rebecca. "You surely would not desert
her?"

"What good can I do her, suppose--suppose the enemy
arrive?" Jos answered. "They'll spare the women; but my
man tells me that they have taken an oath to give no
quarter to the men--the dastardly cowards."

"Horrid!" cried Rebecca, enjoying his perplexity.

"Besides, I don't want to desert her," cried the brother.
"She SHAN'T be deserted. There is a seat for her in my
carriage, and one for you, dear Mrs. Crawley, if you will
come; and if we can get horses--" sighed he--

"I have two to sell," the lady said. Jos could have
flung himself into her arms at the news. "Get the carriage,
Isidor," he cried; "we've found them--we have found
them."

My horses never were in harness," added the lady.
"Bullfinch would kick the carriage to pieces, if you put
him in the traces."

"But he is quiet to ride?" asked the civilian.

"As quiet as a lamb, and as fast as a hare," answered
Rebecca.

"Do you think he is up to my weight?" Jos said. He
was already on his back, in imagination, without ever so
much as a thought for poor Amelia. What person who
loved a horse-speculation could resist such a temptation?

In reply, Rebecca asked him to come into her room,
whither he followed her quite breathless to conclude the
bargain. Jos seldom spent a half-hour in his life which
cost him so much money. Rebecca, measuring the value
of the goods which she had for sale by Jos's eagerness to
purchase, as well as by the scarcity of the article, put
upon her horses a price so prodigious as to make even
the civilian draw back. "She would sell both or neither,"
she said, resolutely. Rawdon had ordered her not to part
with them for a price less than that which she specified.
Lord Bareacres below would give her the same money--
and with all her love and regard for the Sedley family,
her dear Mr. Joseph must conceive that poor people must
live--nobody, in a word, could be more affectionate, but
more firm about the matter of business.

Jos ended by agreeing, as might be supposed of him.
The sum he had to give her was so large that he was
obliged to ask for time; so large as to be a little fortune
to Rebecca, who rapidly calculated that with this sum,
and the sale of the residue of Rawdon's effects, and her
pension as a widow should he fall, she would now be
absolutely independent of the world, and might look her
weeds steadily in the face.

Once or twice in the day she certainly had herself
thought about flying. But her reason gave her better
counsel. "Suppose the French do come," thought Becky,
"what can they do to a poor officer's widow? Bah! the
times of sacks and sieges are over. We shall be let to go
home quietly, or I may live pleasantly abroad with a snug
little income."

Meanwhile Jos and Isidor went off to the stables to
inspect the newly purchased cattle. Jos bade his man
saddle the horses at once. He would ride away that very
night, that very hour. And he left the valet busy in getting
the horses ready, and went homewards himself to
prepare for his departure. It must be secret. He would go to
his chamber by the back entrance. He did not care to face
Mrs. O'Dowd and Amelia, and own to them that he was
about to run.

By the time Jos's bargain with Rebecca was completed,
and his horses had been visited and examined, it was
almost morning once more. But though midnight was long
passed, there was no rest for the city; the people were
up, the lights in the houses flamed, crowds were still
about the doors, and the streets were busy. Rumours of
various natures went still from mouth to mouth: one
report averred that the Prussians had been utterly
defeated; another that it was the English who had been
attacked and conquered: a third that the latter had held
their ground. This last rumour gradually got strength. No
Frenchmen had made their appearance. Stragglers had
come in from the army bringing reports more and more
favourable: at last an aide-de-camp actually reached
Brussels with despatches for the Commandant of the
place, who placarded presently through the town an
official announcement of the success of the allies at Quatre
Bras, and the entire repulse of the French under Ney
after a six hours' battle. The aide-de-camp must have
arrived sometime while Jos and Rebecca were making their
bargain together, or the latter was inspecting his
purchase. When he reached his own hotel, he found a score
of its numerous inhabitants on the threshold discoursing
of the news; there was no doubt as to its truth. And he
went up to communicate it to the ladies under his charge.
He did not think it was necessary to tell them how he
had intended to take leave of them, how he had bought
horses, and what a price he had paid for them.

But success or defeat was a minor matter to them, who
had only thought for the safety of those they loved.
Amelia, at the news of the victory, became still more
agitated even than before. She was for going that
moment to the army. She besought her brother with tears to
conduct her thither. Her doubts and terrors reached their
paroxysm; and the poor girl, who for many hours had
been plunged into stupor, raved and ran hither and
thither in hysteric insanity--a piteous sight. No man
writhing in pain on the hard-fought field fifteen miles
off, where lay, after their struggles, so many of the brave
--no man suffered more keenly than this poor harmless
victim of the war. Jos could not bear the sight of her
pain. He left his sister in the charge of her stouter female
companion, and descended once more to the threshold
of the hotel, where everybody still lingered, and talked,
and waited for more news.

It grew to be broad daylight as they stood here, and
fresh news began to arrive from the war, brought by
men who had been actors in the scene. Wagons and long
country carts laden with wounded came rolling into the
town; ghastly groans came from within them, and
haggard faces looked up sadly from out of the straw. Jos
Sedley was looking at one of these carriages with a
painful curiosity--the moans of the people within were
frightful--the wearied horses could hardly pull the cart.
"Stop! stop!" a feeble voice cried from the straw, and the
carriage stopped opposite Mr. Sedley's hotel.

"It is George, I know it is!" cried Amelia, rushing in a
moment to the balcony, with a pallid face and loose
flowing hair. It was not George, however, but it was the
next best thing: it was news of him.

It was poor Tom Stubble, who had marched out of
Brussels so gallantly twenty-four hours before, bearing
the colours of the regiment, which he had defended very
gallantly upon the field. A French lancer had speared the
young ensign in the leg, who fell, still bravely holding to
his flag. At the conclusion of the engagement, a place
had been found for the poor boy in a cart, and he had
been brought back to Brussels.

"Mr. Sedley, Mr. Sedley!" cried the boy, faintly, and
Jos came up almost frightened at the appeal. He had not
at first distinguished who it was that called him.

Little Tom Stubble held out his hot and feeble hand.
"I'm to be taken in here," he said. "Osborne--and--and
Dobbin said I was; and you are to give the man two
napoleons: my mother will pay you." This young fellow's
thoughts, during the long feverish hours passed in the
cart, had been wandering to his father's parsonage which
he had quitted only a few months before, and he had
sometimes forgotten his pain in that delirium.

The hotel was large, and the people kind, and all the
inmates of the cart were taken in and placed on various
couches. The young ensign was conveyed upstairs to
Osborne's quarters. Amelia and the Major's wife had
rushed down to him, when the latter had recognised him
from the balcony. You may fancy the feelings of these
women when they were told that the day was over, and
both their husbands were safe; in what mute rapture
Amelia fell on her good friend's neck, and embraced
her; in what a grateful passion of prayer she fell on her
knees, and thanked the Power which had saved her
husband.

Our young lady, in her fevered and nervous condition,
could have had no more salutary medicine prescribed for
her by any physician than that which chance put in her
way. She and Mrs. O'Dowd watched incessantly by the
wounded lad, whose pains were very severe, and in the
duty thus forced upon her, Amelia had not time to brood
over her personal anxieties, or to give herself up to her
own fears and forebodings after her wont. The young
patient told in his simple fashion the events of the day, and
the actions of our friends of the gallant --th. They had
suffered severely. They had lost very many officers and
men. The Major's horse had been shot under him as the
regiment charged, and they all thought that O'Dowd was
gone, and that Dobbin had got his majority, until on their
return from the charge to their old ground, the Major was
discovered seated on Pyramus's carcase, refreshing him-
self from a case-bottle. It was Captain Osborne that cut
down the French lancer who had speared the ensign.
Amelia turned so pale at the notion, that Mrs. O'Dowd
stopped the young ensign in this story. And it was
Captain Dobbin who at the end of the day, though wounded
himself, took up the lad in his arms and carried him to
the surgeon, and thence to the cart which was to bring
him back to Brussels. And it was he who promised the
driver two louis if he would make his way to Mr. Sedley's
hotel in the city; and tell Mrs. Captain Osborne that the
action was over, and that her husband was unhurt and
well.

"Indeed, but he has a good heart that William
Dobbin," Mrs. O'Dowd said, "though he is always laughing
at me."

Young Stubble vowed there was not such another
officer in the army, and never ceased his praises of the
senior captain, his modesty, his kindness, and his admirable
coolness in the field. To these parts of the conversation,
Amelia lent a very distracted attention: it was only when
George was spoken of that she listened, and when he
was not mentioned, she thought about him.

In tending her patient, and in thinking of the wonderful
escapes of the day before, her second day passed
away not too slowly with Amelia. There was only one
man in the army for her: and as long as he was well, it
must be owned that its movements interested her little.
All the reports which Jos brought from the streets fell
very vaguely on her ears; though they were sufficient to
give that timorous gentleman, and many other people
then in Brussels, every disquiet. The French had been
repulsed certainly, but it was after a severe and doubtful
struggle, and with only a division of the French army.
The Emperor, with the main body, was away at Ligny,
where he had utterly annihilated the Prussians, and was
now free to bring his whole force to bear upon the allies.
The Duke of Wellington was retreating upon the capital,
and a great battle must be fought under its walls
probably, of which the chances were more than doubtful.
The Duke of Wellington had but twenty thousand British
troops on whom he could rely, for the Germans were
raw militia, the Belgians disaffected, and with this handful
his Grace had to resist a hundred and fifty thousand men
that had broken into Belgium under Napoleon. Under
Napoleon! What warrior was there, however famous and
skilful, that could fight at odds with him?

Jos thought of all these things, and trembled. So did
all the rest of Brussels--where people felt that the fight
of the day before was but the prelude to the greater
combat which was imminent. One of the armies opposed to
the Emperor was scattered to the winds already. The
few English that could be brought to resist him would
perish at their posts, and the conqueror would pass over
their bodies into the city. Woe be to those whom he
found there! Addresses were prepared, public functionaries assembled and debated secretly, apartments were
got ready, and tricoloured banners and triumphal
emblems manufactured, to welcome the arrival of His
Majesty the Emperor and King.

The emigration still continued, and wherever families
could find means of departure, they fled. When Jos, on
the afternoon of the 17th of June, went to Rebecca's
hotel, he found that the great Bareacres' carriage had at
length rolled away from the porte-cochere. The Earl
had procured a pair of horses somehow, in spite of Mrs.
Crawley, and was rolling on the road to Ghent. Louis the
Desired was getting ready his portmanteau in that city,
too. It seemed as if Misfortune was never tired of
worrying into motion that unwieldy exile.

Jos felt that the delay of yesterday had been only a
respite, and that his dearly bought horses must of a
surety be put into requisition. His agonies were very
severe all this day. As long as there was an English army
between Brussels and Napoleon, there was no need of
immediate flight; but he had his horses brought from
their distant stables, to the stables in the court-yard of
the hotel where he lived; so that they might be under his
own eyes, and beyond the risk of violent abduction.
Isidor watched the stable-door constantly, and had the
horses saddled, to be ready for the start. He longed
intensely for that event.

After the reception of the previous day, Rebecca did
not care to come near her dear Amelia. She clipped the
bouquet which George had brought her, and gave fresh
water to the flowers, and read over the letter which he
had sent her. "Poor wretch," she said, twirling round the
little bit of paper in her fingers, "how I could crush her
with this!--and it is for a thing like this that she must
break her heart, forsooth--for a man who is stupid--a
coxcomb--and who does not care for her. My poor good
Rawdon is worth ten of this creature." And then she fell
to thinking what she should do if--if anything happened
to poor good Rawdon, and what a great piece of luck it
was that he had left his horses behind.

In the course of this day too, Mrs. Crawley, who saw
not without anger the Bareacres party drive off,
bethought her of the precaution which the Countess had
taken, and did a little needlework for her own advantage;
she stitched away the major part of her trinkets, bills,
and bank-notes about her person, and so prepared, was
ready for any event--to fly if she thought fit, or to stay
and welcome the conqueror, were he Englishman or
Frenchman. And I am not sure that she did not dream
that night of becoming a duchess and Madame la
Marechale, while Rawdon wrapped in his cloak, and making
his bivouac under the rain at Mount Saint John, was
thinking, with all the force of his heart, about the little
wife whom he had left behind him.

The next day was a Sunday. And Mrs. Major O'Dowd
had the satisfaction of seeing both her patients refreshed
in health and spirits by some rest which they had taken
during the night. She herself had slept on a great chair in
Amelia's room, ready to wait upon her poor friend or the
ensign, should either need her nursing. When morning
came, this robust woman went back to the house where
she and her Major had their billet; and here performed
an elaborate and splendid toilette, befitting the day. And
it is very possible that whilst alone in that chamber, which
her husband had inhabited, and where his cap still lay on
the pillow, and his cane stood in the corner, one prayer at
least was sent up to Heaven for the welfare of the brave
soldier, Michael O'Dowd.

When she returned she brought her prayer-book with
her, and her uncle the Dean's famous book of sermons,
out of which she never failed to read every Sabbath; not
understanding all, haply, not pronouncing many of the
words aright, which were long and abstruse--for the
Dean was a learned man, and loved long Latin words--
but with great gravity, vast emphasis, and with tolerable
correctness in the main. How often has my Mick listened
to these sermons, she thought, and me reading in the
cabin of a calm! She proposed to resume this exercise on
the present day, with Amelia and the wounded ensign
for a congregation. The same service was read on that
day in twenty thousand churches at the same hour; and
millions of British men and women, on their knees,
implored protection of the Father of all.

They did not hear the noise which disturbed our little
congregation at Brussels. Much louder than that which
had interrupted them two days previously, as Mrs.
O'Dowd was reading the service in her best voice, the
cannon of Waterloo began to roar.

When Jos heard that dreadful sound, he made up his
mind that he would bear this perpetual recurrence of
terrors no longer, and would fly at once. He rushed into the
sick man's room, where our three friends had paused in
their prayers, and further interrupted them by a
passionate appeal to Amelia

"I can't stand it any more, Emmy," he said; 'I won't
stand it; and you must come with me. I have bought a
horse for you--never mind at what price--and you must
dress and come with me, and ride behind Isidor."

"God forgive me, Mr. Sedley, but you are no better
than a coward," Mrs. O'Dowd said, laying down the
book.

"I say come, Amelia," the civilian went on; "never
mind what she says; why are we to stop here and be
butchered by the Frenchmen?"

"You forget the --th, my boy," said the little Stubble,
the wounded hero, from his bed--"and and you
won't leave me, will you, Mrs. O'Dowd?"

"No, my dear fellow," said she, going up and kissing
the boy. "No harm shall come to you while I stand by.
I don't budge till I get the word from Mick. A pretty
figure I'd be, wouldn't I, stuck behind that chap on a
pillion?"

This image caused the young patient to burst out
laughing in his bed, and even made Amelia smile. "I
don't ask her," Jos shouted out--"I don't ask that--that
Irishwoman, but you Amelia; once for all, will you
come?"

"Without my husband, Joseph?" Amelia said, with a
look of wonder, and gave her hand to the Major's wife.
Jos's patience was exhausted.

"Good-bye, then," he said, shaking his fist in a rage,
and slamming the door by which he retreated. And this
time he really gave his order for march: and mounted in
the court-yard. Mrs. O'Dowd heard the clattering hoofs
of the horses as they issued from the gate; and looking
on, made many scornful remarks on poor Joseph as he
rode down the street with Isidor after him in the laced
cap. The horses, which had not been exercised for some
days, were lively, and sprang about the street. Jos, a
clumsy and timid horseman, did not look to advantage in
the saddle. "Look at him, Amelia dear, driving into the
parlour window. Such a bull in a china-shop I never
saw." And presently the pair of riders disappeared at a
canter down the street leading in the direction of the
Ghent road, Mrs. O'Dowd pursuing them with a fire of
sarcasm so long as they were in sight.

All that day from morning until past sunset, the
cannon never ceased to roar. It was dark when the
cannonading stopped all of a sudden.

All of us have read of what occurred during that
interval. The tale is in every Englishman's mouth; and
you and I, who were children when the great battle was
won and lost, are never tired of hearing and recounting
the history of that famous action. Its remembrance
rankles still in the bosoms of millions of the countrymen of
those brave men who lost the day. They pant for an
opportunity of revenging that humiliation; and if a contest,
ending in a victory on their part, should ensue, elating
them in their turn, and leaving its cursed legacy of hatred
and rage behind to us, there is no end to the so-called
glory and shame, and to the alternations of successful
and unsuccessful murder, in which two high-spirited
nations might engage. Centuries hence, we Frenchmen and
Englishmen might be boasting and killing each other still,
carrying out bravely the Devil's code of honour.

All our friends took their share and fought like men in
the great field. All day long, whilst the women were
praying ten miles away, the lines of the dauntless English
infantry were receiving and repelling the furious charges of
the French horsemen. Guns which were heard at Brussels
were ploughing up their ranks, and comrades falling, and
the resolute survivors closing in. Towards evening, the
attack of the French, repeated and resisted so bravely,
slackened in its fury. They had other foes besides the
British to engage, or were preparing for a final onset. It
came at last: the columns of the Imperial Guard marched
up the hill of Saint Jean, at length and at once to sweep
the English from the height which they had maintained
all day, and spite of all: unscared by the thunder of the
artillery, which hurled death from the English line--the
dark rolling column pressed on and up the hill. It seemed
almost to crest the eminence, when it began to wave and
falter. Then it stopped, still facing the shot. Then at last
the English troops rushed from the post from which no
enemy had been able to dislodge them, and the Guard
turned and fled.

No more firing was heard at Brussels--the pursuit
rolled miles away. Darkness came down on the field and
city: and Amelia was praying for George, who was lying
on his face, dead, with a bullet through his heart.

CHAPTER XXXIII

In Which Miss Crawley's Relations Are Very Anxious About Her

The kind reader must please to remember--while the
army is marching from Flanders, and, after its heroic
actions there, is advancing to take the fortifications on the
frontiers of France, previous to an occupation of that
country--that there are a number of persons living
peaceably in England who have to do with the history at
present in hand, and must come in for their share of the
chronicle. During the time of these battles and dangers,
old Miss Crawley was living at Brighton, very moderately
moved by the great events that were going on. The great
events rendered the newspapers rather interesting, to be
sure, and Briggs read out the Gazette, in which Rawdon
Crawley's gallantry was mentioned with honour, and his
promotion was presently recorded.

"What a pity that young man has taken such an
irretrievable step in the world!" his aunt said; "with his rank
and distinction he might have married a brewer's
daughter with a quarter of a million--like Miss Grains; or have
looked to ally himself with the best families in England.
He would have had my money some day or other; or his
children would--for I'm not in a hurry to go, Miss Briggs,
although you may be in a hurry to be rid of me; and
instead of that, he is a doomed pauper, with a dancing-girl
for a wife."

"Will my dear Miss Crawley not cast an eye of
compassion upon the heroic soldier, whose name is inscribed
in the annals of his country's glory?" said Miss Briggs,
who was greatly excited by the Waterloo proceedings,
and loved speaking romantically when there was an
occasion. "Has not the Captain--or the Colonel as I may
now style him--done deeds which make the name of
Crawley illustrious?"

"Briggs, you are a fool," said Miss Crawley: "Colonel
Crawley has dragged the name of Crawley through the
mud, Miss Briggs. Marry a drawing-master's daughter,
indeed!--marry a dame de compagnie--for she was no
better, Briggs; no, she was just what you are--only younger,
and a great deal prettier and cleverer. Were you an
accomplice of that abandoned wretch, I wonder, of whose
vile arts he became a victim, and of whom you used to
be such an admirer? Yes, I daresay you were an accomplice.
But you will find yourself disappointed in my will,
I can tell you: and you will have the goodness to write to
Mr. Waxy, and say that I desire to see him immediately."
Miss Crawley was now in the habit of writing to Mr.
Waxy her solicitor almost every day in the week, for her
arrangements respecting her property were all revoked,
and her perplexity was great as to the future disposition
of her money.

The spinster had, however, rallied considerably; as
was proved by the increased vigour and frequency of her
sarcasms upon Miss Briggs, all which attacks the poor
companion bore with meekness, with cowardice, with a
resignation that was half generous and half hypocritical
--with the slavish submission, in a word, that women of
her disposition and station are compelled to show. Who
has not seen how women bully women? What tortures
have men to endure, comparable to those daily repeated
shafts of scorn and cruelty with which poor women are
riddled by the tyrants of their sex? Poor victims! But we
are starting from our proposition, which is, that Miss
Crawley was always particularly annoying and savage
when she was rallying from illness--as they say wounds
tingle most when they are about to heal.

While thus approaching, as all hoped, to convalescence,
Miss Briggs was the only victim admitted into the
presence of the invalid; yet Miss Crawley's relatives afar
off did not forget their beloved kinswoman, and by a
number of tokens, presents, and kind affectionate
messages, strove to keep themselves alive in her
recollection.

In the first place, let us mention her nephew, Rawdon
Crawley. A few weeks after the famous fight of Waterloo,
and after the Gazette had made known to her the promotion
and gallantry of that distinguished officer, the Dieppe
packet brought over to Miss Crawley at Brighton, a box
containing presents, and a dutiful letter, from the
Colonel her nephew. In the box were a pair of French
epaulets, a Cross of the Legion of Honour, and the hilt of a
sword--relics from the field of battle: and the letter
described with a good deal of humour how the latter
belonged to a commanding officer of the Guard, who having
sworn that "the Guard died, but never surrendered,"
was taken prisoner the next minute by a private soldier,
who broke the Frenchman's sword with the butt of his
musket, when Rawdon made himself master of the
shattered weapon. As for the cross and epaulets, they came
from a Colonel of French cavalry, who had fallen under
the aide-de-camp's arm in the battle: and Rawdon Crawley
did not know what better to do with the spoils than
to send them to his kindest and most affectionate old
friend. Should he continue to write to her from Paris,
whither the army was marching? He might be able to
give her interesting news from that capital, and of some
of Miss Crawley's old friends of the emigration, to whom
she had shown so much kindness during their distress.

The spinster caused Briggs to write back to the Colonel
a gracious and complimentary letter, encouraging
him to continue his correspondence. His first letter was
so excessively lively and amusing that she should look
with pleasure for its successors.--"Of course, I know,"
she explained to,Miss Briggs, "that Rawdon could not
write such a good letter any more than you could, my
poor Briggs, and that it is that clever little wretch of a
Rebecca, who dictates every word to him; but that is no
reason why my nephew should not amuse me; and so I
wish to let him understand that I am in high good
humour."

I wonder whether she knew that it was not only Becky
who wrote the letters, but that Mrs. Rawdon actually
took and sent home the trophies which she bought for a
few francs, from one of the innumerable pedlars who
immediately began to deal in relics of the war. The
novelist, who knows everything, knows this also. Be this,
however, as it may, Miss Crawley's gracious reply greatly
encouraged our young friends, Rawdon and his lady, who
hoped for the best from their aunt's evidently pacified
humour: and they took care to entertain her with many
delightful letters from Paris, whither, as Rawdon said,
they had the good luck to go in the track of the
conquering army.

To the rector's lady, who went off to tend her
husband's broken collar-bone at the Rectory at Queen's
Crawley, the spinster's communications were by no
means so gracious. Mrs. Bute, that brisk, managing,
lively, imperious woman, had committed the most fatal of
all errors with regard to her sister-in-law. She had not
merely oppressed her and her household--she had bored
Miss Crawley; and if poor Miss Briggs had been a
woman of any spirit, she might have been made happy
by the commission which her principal gave her to write
a letter to Mrs. Bute Crawley, saying that Miss Crawley's
health was greatly improved since Mrs. Bute had left her,
and begging the latter on no account to put herself to
trouble, or quit her family for Miss Crawley's sake. This
triumph over a lady who had been very haughty and
cruel in her behaviour to Miss Briggs, would have rejoiced
most women; but the truth is, Briggs was a woman of no
spirit at all, and the moment her enemy was discomfited,
she began to feel compassion in her favour.

"How silly I was," Mrs. Bute thought, and with
reason, "ever to hint that I was coming, as I did, in that
foolish letter when we sent Miss Crawley the guinea-
fowls. I ought to have gone without a word to the poor
dear doting old creature, and taken her out of the hands
of that ninny Briggs, and that harpy of a femme de
chambre. Oh! Bute, Bute, why did you break your collar-
bone?"

Why, indeed? We have seen how Mrs. Bute, having the
game in her hands, had really played her cards too well.
She had ruled over Miss Crawley's household utterly and
completely, to be utterly and completely routed when a
favourable opportunity for rebellion came. She and her
household, however, considered that she had been the
victim of horrible selfishness and treason, and that her
sacrifices in Miss Crawley's behalf had met with the most
savage ingratitude. Rawdon's promotion, and the
honourable mention made of his name in the Gazette, filled
this good Christian lady also with alarm. Would his aunt
relent towards him now that he was a Lieutenant-Colonel
and a C.B.? and would that odious Rebecca once more
get into favour? The Rector's wife wrote a sermon for her
husband about the vanity of military glory and the
prosperity of the wicked, which the worthy parson read in
his best voice and without understanding one syllable of
it. He had Pitt Crawley for one of his auditors--Pitt, who
had come with his two half-sisters to church, which.the
old Baronet could now by no means be brought to
frequent.

Since the departure of Becky Sharp, that old wretch
had given himself up entirely to his bad courses, to the
great scandal of the county and the mute horror of his
son. The ribbons in Miss Horrocks's cap became more
splendid than ever. The polite families fled the hall and
its owner in terror. Sir Pitt went about tippling at his
tenants' houses; and drank rum-and-water with the
farmers at Mudbury and the neighbouring places on
market-days. He drove the family coach-and-four to
Southampton with Miss Horrocks inside: and the county people
expected, every week, as his son did in speechless agony,
that his marriage with her would be announced in the
provincial paper. It was indeed a rude burthen for Mr.
Crawley to bear. His eloquence was palsied at the
missionary meetings, and other religious assemblies in the
neighbourhood, where he had been in the habit of
presiding, and of speaking for hours; for he felt, when he rose,
that the audience said, "That is the son of the old
reprobate Sir Pitt, who is very likely drinking at the public
house at this very moment." And once when he was
speaking of the benighted condition of the king of
Timbuctoo, and the number of his wives who were likewise in
darkness, some gipsy miscreant from the crowd asked,
"How many is there at Queen's Crawley, Young
Squaretoes?" to the surprise of the platform, and the ruin
of Mr. Pitt's speech. And the two daughters of the house of
Queen's Crawley would have been allowed to run utterly
wild (for Sir Pitt swore that no governess should ever
enter into his doors again), had not Mr. Crawley, by
threatening the old gentleman, forced the latter to send
them to school.

Meanwhile, as we have said, whatever individual
differences there might be between them all, Miss Crawley's
dear nephews and nieces were unanimous in loving her
and sending her tokens of affection. Thus Mrs. Bute sent
guinea-fowls, and some remarkably fine cauliflowers, and
a pretty purse or pincushion worked by her darling girls,
who begged to keep a LITTLE place in the recollection of
their dear aunt, while Mr. Pitt sent peaches and grapes
and venison from the Hall. The Southampton coach used
to carry these tokens of affection to Miss Crawley at
Brighton: it used sometimes to convey Mr. Pitt thither
too: for his differences with Sir Pitt caused Mr. Crawley
to absent himself a good deal from home now: and
besides, he had an attraction at Brighton in the person of
the Lady Jane Sheepshanks, whose engagement to Mr.
Crawley has been formerly mentioned in this history.
Her Ladyship and her sisters lived at Brighton with their
mamma, the Countess Southdown, that strong-minded
woman so favourably known in the serious world.

A few words ought to be said regarding her Ladyship
and her noble family, who are bound by ties of present
and future relationship to the house of Crawley.
Respecting the chief of the Southdown family, Clement
William, fourth Earl of Southdown, little need be told,
except that his Lordship came into Parliament (as Lord
Wolsey) under the auspices of Mr. Wilberforce, and for
a time was a credit to his political sponsor, and decidedly
a serious young man. But words cannot describe the
feelings of his admirable mother, when she learned, very
shortly after her noble husband's demise, that her son
was a member of several worldly clubs, had lost largely
at play at Wattier's and the Cocoa Tree; that he had
raised money on post-obits, and encumbered the family
estate; that he drove four-in-hand, and patronised the
ring; and that he actually had an opera-box, where he
entertained the most dangerous bachelor company. His
name was only mentioned with groans in the dowager's
circle.

The Lady Emily was her brother's senior by many
years; and took considerable rank in the serious world as
author of some of the delightful tracts before mentioned,
and of many hymns and spiritual pieces. A mature
spinster, and having but faint ideas of marriage, her love for
the blacks occupied almost all her feelings. It is to her, I
believe, we owe that beautiful poem

Lead us to some sunny isle,
Yonder in the western deep;
Where the skies for ever smile,
And the blacks for ever weep, &c.

She had correspondences with clerical gentlemen in
most of our East and West India possessions; and was
secretly attached to the Reverend Silas Hornblower, who
was tattooed in the South Sea Islands.

As for the Lady Jane, on whom, as it has been said, Mr.
Pitt Crawley's affection had been placed, she was gentle,
blushing, silent, and timid. In spite of his falling away,
she wept for her brother, and was quite ashamed of
loving him still. Even yet she used to send him little hurried
smuggled notes, and pop them into the post in private.
The one dreadful secret which weighed upon her life was,
that she and the old housekeeper had been to pay
Southdown a furtive visit at his chambers in the Albany; and
found him--O the naughty dear abandoned wretch!--
smoking a cigar with a bottle of Curacao before him. She
admired her sister, she adored her mother, she thought
Mr. Crawley the most delightful and accomplished of
men, after Southdown, that fallen angel: and her mamma
and sister, who were ladies of the most superior sort,
managed everything for her, and regarded her with that
amiable pity, of which your really superior woman always
has such a share to give away. Her mamma ordered her
dresses, her books, her bonnets, and her ideas for her.
She was made to take pony-riding, or piano-exercise, or
any other sort of bodily medicament, according as my
Lady Southdown saw meet; and her ladyship would have
kept her daughter in pinafores up to her present age of
six-and-twenty, but that they were thrown off when Lady
Jane was presented to Queen Charlotte.

When these ladies first came to their house at Brighton,
it was to them alone that Mr. Crawley paid his personal
visits, contenting himself by leaving a card at his aunt's
house, and making a modest inquiry of Mr. Bowls or his
assistant footman, with respect to the health of the
invalid. When he met Miss Briggs coming home from the
library with a cargo of novels under her arm, Mr. Crawley
blushed in a manner quite unusual to him, as he
stepped forward and shook Miss Crawley's companion by
the hand. He introduced Miss Briggs to the lady with
whom he happened to be walking, the Lady Jane
Sheepshanks, saying, "Lady Jane, permit me to introduce to
you my aunt's kindest friend and most affectionate
companion, Miss Briggs, whom you know under another title,
as authoress of the delightful 'Lyrics of the Heart,' of
which you are so fond."  Lady Jane blushed too as she
held out a kind little hand to Miss Briggs, and said
something very civil and incoherent about mamma, and
proposing to call on Miss Crawley, and being glad to be
made known to the friends and relatives of Mr. Crawley;
and with soft dove-like eyes saluted Miss Briggs as
they separated, while Pitt Crawley treated her to a
profound courtly bow, such as he had used to H.H. the
Duchess of Pumpernickel, when he was attache at that court.

The artful diplomatist and disciple of the Machiavellian
Binkie! It was he who had given Lady Jane that copy of
poor Briggs's early poems, which he remembered to have
seen at Queen's Crawley, with a dedication from the
poetess to his father's late wife; and he brought the
volume with him to Brighton, reading it in the Southampton
coach and marking it with his own pencil, before he
presented it to the gentle Lady Jane.

It was he, too, who laid before Lady Southdown the
great advantages which might occur from an intimacy
between her family and Miss Crawley--advantages both
worldly and spiritual, he said: for Miss Crawley was now
quite alone; the monstrous dissipation and alliance of his
brother Rawdon had estranged her affections from that
reprobate young man; the greedy tyranny and avarice of
Mrs. Bute Crawley had caused the old lady to revolt
against the exorbitant pretensions of that part of the
family; and though he himself had held off all his life from
cultivating Miss Crawley's friendship, with perhaps an
improper pride, he thought now that every becoming
means should be taken, both to save her soul from
perdition, and to secure her fortune to himself as the head of
the house of Crawley.

The strong-minded Lady Southdown quite agreed in
both proposals of her son-in-law, and was for converting
Miss Crawley off-hand. At her own home, both at
Southdown and at Trottermore Castle, this tall and awful
missionary of the truth rode about the country in her
barouche with outriders, launched packets of tracts among
the cottagers and tenants, and would order Gaffer Jones
to be converted, as she would order Goody Hicks to take
a James's powder, without appeal, resistance, or benefit of
clergy. My Lord Southdown, her late husband, an epileptic
and simple-minded nobleman, was in the habit of
approving of everything which his Matilda did and
thought. So that whatever changes her own belief might
undergo (and it accommodated itself to a prodigious
variety of opinion, taken from all sorts of doctors among
the Dissenters) she had not the least scruple in ordering
all her tenants and inferiors to follow and believe after
her. Thus whether she received the Reverend Saunders
McNitre, the Scotch divine; or the Reverend Luke Waters,
the mild Wesleyan; or the Reverend Giles Jowls, the
illuminated Cobbler, who dubbed himself Reverend as
Napoleon crowned himself Emperor--the household,
children, tenantry of my Lady Southdown were expected to
go down on their knees with her Ladyship, and say Amen
to the prayers of either Doctor. During these exercises old
Southdown, on account of his invalid condition, was
allowed to sit in his own room, and have negus and the
paper read to him. Lady Jane was the old Earl's favourite
daughter, and tended him and loved him sincerely: as for
Lady Emily, the authoress of the "Washerwoman of
Finchley Common," her denunciations of future punishment
(at this period, for her opinions modified afterwards)
were so awful that they used to frighten the timid
old gentleman her father, and the physicians declared his
fits always occurred after one of her Ladyship's sermons.

"I will certainly call," said Lady Southdown then, in
reply to the exhortation of her daughter's pretendu, Mr.
Pitt Crawley--"Who is Miss Crawley's medical man?"

Mr. Crawley mentioned the name of Mr. Creamer.

"A most dangerous and ignorant practitioner, my dear
Pitt. I have providentially been the means of removing
him from several houses: though in one or two
instances I did not arrive in time. I could not save poor
dear General Glanders, who was dying under the hands of
that ignorant man--dying. He rallied a little under the
Podgers' pills which I administered to him; but alas! it
was too late. His death was delightful, however; and his
change was only for the better; Creamer, my dear Pitt,
must leave your aunt."

Pitt expressed his perfect acquiescence. He, too, had
been carried along by the energy of his noble kinswoman,
and future mother-in-law. He had been made to accept
Saunders McNitre, Luke Waters, Giles Jowls, Podgers'
Pills, Rodgers' Pills, Pokey's Elixir, every one of her
Ladyship's remedies spiritual or temporal. He never left
her house without carrying respectfully away with him
piles of her quack theology and medicine. O, my dear
brethren and fellow-sojourners in Vanity Fair, which
among you does not know and suffer under such
benevolent despots? It is in vain you say to them, "Dear
Madam, I took Podgers' specific at your orders last year,
and believe in it. Why, why am I to recant and accept the
Rodgers' articles now?"  There is no help for it; the faithful proselytizer, if she cannot convince by argument,
bursts into tears, and the refusant finds himself, at the
end of the contest, taking down the bolus, and saying,
"Well, well, Rodgers' be it."

"And as for her spiritual state," continued the Lady,
"that of course must be looked to immediately: with
Creamer about her, she may go off any day: and in what
a condition, my dear Pitt, in what a dreadful condition!
I will send the Reverend Mr. Irons to her instantly. Jane,
write a line to the Reverend Bartholomew Irons, in the
third person, and say that I desire the pleasure of his
company this evening at tea at half-past six. He is an
awakening man; he ought to see Miss Crawley before she
rests this night. And Emily, my love, get ready a packet
of books for Miss Crawley. Put up 'A Voice from the
Flames,' 'A Trumpet-warning to Jericho,' and the
'Fleshpots Broken; or, the Converted Cannibal.' "

"And the 'Washerwoman of Finchley Common,'
Mamma," said Lady Emily. "It is as well to begin
soothingly at first."

"Stop, my dear ladies," said Pitt, the diplomatist.
"With every deference to the opinion of my beloved and
respected Lady Southdown, I think it would be quite
unadvisable to commence so early upon serious topics with
Miss Crawley. Remember her delicate condition, and how
little, how very little accustomed she has hitherto been
to considerations connected with her immortal welfare."

"Can we then begin too early, Pitt?" said Lady Emily,
rising with six little books already in her hand.

"If you begin abruptly, you will frighten her altogether.
I know my aunt's worldly nature so well as to be sure
that any abrupt attempt at conversion will be the very
worst means that can be employed for the welfare of that
unfortunate lady. You will only frighten and annoy her.
She will very likely fling the books away, and refuse all
acquaintance with the givers."

"You are as worldly as Miss Crawley, Pitt," said Lady
Emily, tossing out of the room, her books in her hand.

"And I need not tell you, my dear Lady Southdown,"
Pitt continued, in a low voice, and without heeding the
interruption, "how fatal a little want of gentleness and
caution may be to any hopes which we may entertain with
regard to the worldly possessions of my aunt. Remember
she has seventy thousand pounds; think of her age, and
her highly nervous and delicate condition; I know that she
has destroyed the will which was made in my brother's
(Colonel Crawley's) favour: it is by soothing that
wounded spirit that we must lead it into the right path,
and not by frightening it; and so I think you will agree
with me that--that--'

"Of course, of course," Lady Southdown remarked.
"Jane, my love, you need not send that note to Mr. Irons.
If her health is such that discussions fatigue her, we will
wait her amendment. I will call upon Miss Crawley
tomorrow."

"And if I might suggest, my sweet lady," Pitt said in a
bland tone, "it would be as well not to take our precious
Emily, who is too enthusiastic; but rather that you should
be accompanied by our sweet and dear Lady Jane."

"Most certainly, Emily would ruin everything," Lady
Southdown said; and this time agreed to forego her usual
practice, which was, as we have said, before she bore
down personally upon any individual whom she proposed
to subjugate, to fire in a quantity of tracts upon the
menaced party (as a charge of the French was always
preceded by a furious cannonade). Lady Southdown, we
say, for the sake of the invalid's health, or for the sake
of her soul's ultimate welfare, or for the sake of her
money, agreed to temporise.

The next day, the great Southdown female family
carriage, with the Earl's coronet and the lozenge (upon
which the three lambs trottant argent upon the field vert
of the Southdowns, were quartered with sable on a bend
or, three snuff-mulls gules, the cognizance of the house of
Binkie), drove up in state to Miss Crawley's door, and
the tall serious footman handed in to Mr. Bowls her
Ladyship's cards for Miss Crawley, and one likewise for
Miss Briggs. By way of compromise, Lady Emily sent in a
packet in the evening for the latter lady, containing
copies of the "Washerwoman," and other mild and favourite
tracts for Miss B.'s own perusal; and a few for the
servants' hall, viz.: "Crumbs from the Pantry," "The
Frying Pan and the Fire," and "The Livery of Sin," of a
much stronger kind.

CHAPTER XXXIV

James Crawley's Pipe Is Put Out

The amiable behaviour of Mr. Crawley, and Lady Jane's
kind reception of her, highly flattered Miss Briggs, who
was enabled to speak a good word for the latter, after
the cards of the Southdown family had been presented to
Miss Crawley. A Countess's card left personally too for
her, Briggs, was not a little pleasing to the poor friendless
companion. "What could Lady Southdown mean by
leaving a card upon you, I wonder, Miss Briggs?" said
the republican Miss Crawley; upon which the companion
meekly said "that she hoped there could be no harm in a
lady of rank taking notice of a poor gentlewoman," and
she put away this card in her work-box amongst her most
cherished personal treasures. Furthermore, Miss Briggs
explained how she had met Mr. Crawley walking with his
cousin and long affianced bride the day before: and she
told how kind and gentle-looking the lady was, and what
a plain, not to say common, dress she had, all the articles
of which, from the bonnet down to the boots, she
described and estimated with female accuracy.

Miss Crawley allowed Briggs to prattle on without
interrupting her too much. As she got well, she was pining
for society. Mr. Creamer, her medical man, would not
hear of her returning to her old haunts and dissipation in
London. The old spinster was too glad to find any
companionship at Brighton, and not only were the cards
acknowledged the very next day, but Pitt Crawley was
graciously invited to come and see his aunt. He came,
bringing with him Lady Southdown and her daughter. The
dowager did not say a word about the state of Miss
Crawley's soul; but talked with much discretion about the
weather: about the war and the downfall of the monster
Bonaparte: and above all, about doctors, quacks, and the
particular merits of Dr. Podgers, whom she then
patronised.

During their interview Pitt Crawley made a great
stroke, and one which showed that, had his diplomatic
career not been blighted by early neglect, he might have
risen to a high rank in his profession. When the Countess
Dowager of Southdown fell foul of the Corsican upstart,
as the fashion was in those days, and showed that he was
a monster stained with every conceivable crime, a coward
and a tyrant not fit to live, one whose fall was predicted,
&c., Pitt Crawley suddenly took up the cudgels in favour
of the man of Destiny. He described the First Consul as
he saw him at Paris at the peace of Amiens; when he, Pitt
Crawley, had the gratification of making the acquaintance
of the great and good Mr. Fox, a statesman whom,
however much he might differ with him, it was impossible not
to admire fervently--a statesman who had always had
the highest opinion of the Emperor Napoleon. And he
spoke in terms of the strongest indignation of the faithless
conduct of the allies towards this dethroned monarch,
who, after giving himself generously up to their mercy,
was consigned to an ignoble and cruel banishment, while
a bigoted Popish rabble was tyrannising over France in
his stead.

This orthodox horror of Romish superstition saved
Pitt Crawley in Lady Southdown's opinion, whilst his
admiration for Fox and Napoleon raised him immeasurably
in Miss Crawley's eyes. Her friendship with that
defunct British statesman was mentioned when we first
introduced her in this history. A true Whig, Miss Crawley
had been in opposition all through the war, and though, to
be sure, the downfall of the Emperor did not very much
agitate the old lady, or his ill-treatment tend to shorten
her life or natural rest, yet Pitt spoke to her heart when
he lauded both her idols; and by that single speech made
immense progress in her favour.

"And what do you think, my dear?" Miss Crawley said
to the young lady, for whom she had taken a liking at
first sight, as she always did for pretty and modest young
people; though it must be owned her affections cooled as
rapidly as they rose.

Lady Jane blushed very much, and said "that she did
not understand politics, which she left to wiser heads
than hers; but though Mamma was, no doubt, correct,
Mr. Crawley had spoken beautifully." And when the ladies
were retiring at the conclusion of their visit, Miss Crawley
hoped "Lady Southdown would be so kind as to send
her Lady Jane sometimes, if she could be spared to come
down and console a poor sick lonely old woman." This
promise was graciously accorded, and they separated
upon great terms of amity.

"Don't let Lady Southdown come again, Pitt," said the
old lady. "She is stupid and pompous, like all your mother's
family, whom I never could endure. But bring that nice
good-natured little Jane as often as ever you please." Pitt
promised that he would do so. He did not tell the Countess
of Southdown what opinion his aunt had formed of
her Ladyship, who, on the contrary, thought that she had
made a most delightful and majestic impression on Miss
Crawley.

And so, nothing loth to comfort a sick lady, and
perhaps not sorry in her heart to be freed now and again
from the dreary spouting of the Reverend Bartholomew
Irons, and the serious toadies who gathered round the
footstool of the pompous Countess, her mamma, Lady
Jane became a pretty constant visitor to Miss Crawley,
accompanied her in her drives, and solaced many of her
evenings. She was so naturally good and soft, that even
Firkin was not jealous of her; and the gentle Briggs
thought her friend was less cruel to her when kind Lady
Jane was by. Towards her Ladyship Miss Crawley's
manners were charming. The old spinster told her a thousand
anecdotes about her youth, talking to her in a very
different strain from that in which she had been accustomed
to converse with the godless little Rebecca; for there was
that in Lady Jane's innocence which rendered light talking impertinence before her, and Miss Crawley was too
much of a gentlewoman to offend such purity. The young
lady herself had never received kindness except from this
old spinster, and her brother and father: and she repaid
Miss Crawley's engoument by artless sweetness and
friendship.

In the autumn evenings (when Rebecca was flaunting
at Paris, the gayest among the gay conquerors there, and
our Amelia, our dear wounded Amelia, ah! where was
she?) Lady Jane would be sitting in Miss Crawley's
drawing-room singing sweetly to her, in the twilight, her
little simple songs and hymns, while the sun was setting
and the sea was roaring on the beach. The old spinster
used to wake up when these ditties ceased, and ask for
more. As for Briggs, and the quantity of tears of happiness
which she now shed as she pretended to knit, and
looked out at the splendid ocean darkling before the
windows, and the lamps of heaven beginning more brightly to
shine--who, I say can measure the happiness and
sensibility of Briggs?

Pitt meanwhile in the dining-room, with a pamphlet on
the Corn Laws or a Missionary Register by his side, took
that kind of recreation which suits romantic and unromantic
men after dinner. He sipped Madeira: built castles
in the air: thought himself a fine fellow: felt himself much
more in love with Jane than he had been any time these
seven years, during which their liaison had lasted without
the slightest impatience on Pitt's part--and slept a good
deal. When the time for coffee came, Mr. Bowls used to
enter in a noisy manner, and summon Squire Pitt, who
would be found in the dark very busy with his pamphlet.

"I wish, my love, I could get somebody to play piquet
with me," Miss Crawley said one night when this functionary
made his appearance with the candles and the coffee.
"Poor Briggs can no more play than an owl, she is so
stupid" (the spinster always took an opportunity of abusing
Briggs before the servants); "and I think I should
sleep better if I had my game."

At this Lady Jane blushed to the tips of her little ears,
and down to the ends of her pretty fingers; and when Mr.
Bowls had quitted the room, and the door was quite shut,
she said:

"Miss Crawley, I can play a little. I used to--to play
a little with poor dear papa."

"Come and kiss me. Come and kiss me this instant,
you dear good little soul," cried Miss Crawley in an ecstasy:
and in this picturesque and friendly occupation Mr. Pitt
found the old lady and the young one, when he came
upstairs with him pamphlet in his hand. How she did blush
all the evening, that poor Lady Jane!

It must not be imagined that Mr. Pitt Crawley's artifices
escaped the attention of his dear relations at the
Rectory at Queen's Crawley. Hampshire and Sussex lie
very close together, and Mrs. Bute had friends in the
latter county who took care to inform her of all, and a great
deal more than all, that passed at Miss Crawley's house
at Brighton. Pitt was there more and more. He did not
come for months together to the Hall, where his abominable
old father abandoned himself completely to rum-
and-water, and the odious society of the Horrocks family.
Pitt's success rendered the Rector's family furious, and
Mrs. Bute regretted more (though she confessed less)
than ever her monstrous fault in so insulting Miss Briggs,
and in being so haughty and parsimonious to Bowls and
Firkin, that she had not a single person left in Miss Crawley's household to give her information of what took place
there. "It was all Bute's collar-bone," she persisted in
saying; "if that had not broke, I never would have left her. I
am a martyr to duty and to your odious unclerical habit
of hunting, Bute."

"Hunting; nonsense! It was you that frightened her,
Barbara," the divine interposed. "You're a clever woman,
but you've got a devil of a temper; and you're a screw
with your money, Barbara."

"You'd have been screwed in gaol, Bute, if I had not
kept your money."

"I know I would, my dear," said the Rector, good-naturedly.
"You ARE a clever woman, but you manage too
well, you know": and the pious man consoled himself
with a big glass of port.

"What the deuce can she find in that spooney of a Pitt
Crawley?" he continued. "The fellow has not pluck enough
to say Bo to a goose. I remember when Rawdon, who is a
man, and be hanged to him, used to flog him round the
stables as if he was a whipping-top: and Pitt would go
howling home to his ma--ha, ha! Why, either of my boys
would whop him with one hand. Jim says he's
remembered at Oxford as Miss Crawley still--the spooney.

"I say, Barbara," his reverence continued, after a pause.

"What?" said Barbara, who was biting her nails, and
drumming the table.

"I say, why not send Jim over to Brighton to see if he
can do anything with the old lady. He's very near getting
his degree, you know. He's only been plucked twice--so
was I--but he's had the advantages of Oxford and a
university education. He knows some of the best chaps there.
He pulls stroke in the Boniface boat. He's a handsome
feller. D-- it, ma'am, let's put him on the old woman,
hey, and tell him to thrash Pitt if he says anything.
Ha, ha, ha!

"Jim might go down and see her, certainly," the housewife
said; adding with a sigh, "If we could but get one of
the girls into the house; but she could never endure them,
because they are not pretty!"  Those unfortunate and
well-educated women made themselves heard from the
neighbouring drawing-room, where they were thrumming
away, with hard fingers, an elaborate music-piece on the
piano-forte, as their mother spoke; and indeed, they were at
music, or at backboard, or at geography, or at history,
the whole day long. But what avail all these accomplishments,
in Vanity Fair, to girls who are short, poor, plain,
and have a bad complexion? Mrs. Bute could think of
nobody but the Curate to take one of them off her hands;
and Jim coming in from the stable at this minute, through
the parlour window, with a short pipe stuck in his
oilskin cap, he and his father fell to talking about odds on
the St. Leger, and the colloquy between the Rector and his
wife ended.

Mrs. Bute did not augur much good to the cause from
the sending of her son James as an ambassador, and saw
him depart in rather a despairing mood. Nor did the
young fellow himself, when told what his mission was to
be, expect much pleasure or benefit from it; but he was
consoled by the thought that possibly the old lady would
give him some handsome remembrance of her, which
would pay a few of his most pressing bills at the
commencement of the ensuing Oxford term, and so took his
place by the coach from Southampton, and was safely
landed at Brighton on the same evening? with his
portmanteau, his favourite bull-dog Towzer, and an
immense basket of farm and garden produce, from the dear
Rectory folks to the dear Miss Crawley. Considering it
was too late to disturb the invalid lady on the first night
of his arrival, he put up at an inn, and did not wait upon
Miss Crawley until a late hour in the noon of next day.

James Crawley, when his aunt had last beheld him, was
a gawky lad, at that uncomfortable age when the voice
varies between an unearthly treble and a preternatural
bass; when the face not uncommonly blooms out with
appearances for which Rowland's Kalydor is said to act as
a cure; when boys are seen to shave furtively with their
sister's scissors, and the sight of other young women
produces intolerable sensations of terror in them; when the
great hands and ankles protrude a long way from
garments which have grown too tight for them; when their
presence after dinner is at once frightful to the ladies, who
are whispering in the twilight in the drawing-room, and
inexpressibly odious to the gentlemen over the mahogany,
who are restrained from freedom of intercourse and
delightful interchange of wit by the presence of that gawky
innocence; when, at the conclusion of the second glass,
papa says, "Jack, my boy, go out and see if the evening
holds up," and the youth, willing to be free, yet hurt at
not being yet a man, quits the incomplete banquet. James,
then a hobbadehoy, was now become a young man,
having had the benefits of a university education, and
acquired the inestimable polish which is gained by living in a
fast set at a small college, and contracting debts, and
being rusticated, and being plucked.

He was a handsome lad, however, when he came to
present himself to his aunt at Brighton, and good looks
were always a title to the fickle old lady's favour. Nor did
his blushes and awkwardness take away from it: she
was pleased with these healthy tokens of the young
gentleman's ingenuousness.

He said "he had come down for a couple of days to see
a man of his college, and--and to pay my respects to you,
Ma'am, and my father's and mother's, who hope you are
well."

Pitt was in the room with Miss Crawley when the lad
was announced, and looked very blank when his name
was mentioned. The old lady had plenty of humour, and
enjoyed her correct nephew's perplexity. She asked after
all the people at the Rectory with great interest; and said
she was thinking of paying them a visit. She praised the
lad to his face, and said he was well-grown and very much
improved, and that it was a pity his sisters had not some
of his good looks; and finding, on inquiry, that he had
taken up his quarters at an hotel, would not hear of his
stopping there, but bade Mr. Bowls send for Mr. James
Crawley's things instantly; "and hark ye, Bowls," she
added, with great graciousness, "you will have the
goodness to pay Mr. James's bill."

She flung Pitt a look of arch triumph, which caused
that diplomatist almost to choke with envy. Much as he
had ingratiated himself with his aunt, she had never yet
invited him to stay under her roof, and here was a young
whipper-snapper, who at first sight was made welcome
there.

"I beg your pardon, sir," says Bowls, advancing with a
profound bow; "what otel, sir, shall Thomas fetch the
luggage from?"

"O, dam," said young James, starting up, as if in some
alarm, "I'll go."

"What!" said Miss Crawley.

"The Tom Cribb's Arms," said James, blushing deeply.

Miss Crawley burst out laughing at this title. Mr.
Bowls gave one abrupt guffaw, as a confidential servant
of the family, but choked the rest of the volley; the
diplomatist only smiled.

"I--I didn't know any better," said James, looking down.
"I've never been here before; it was the coachman told
me." The young story-teller! The fact is, that on the
Southampton coach, the day previous, James Crawley had
met the Tutbury Pet, who was coming to Brighton to
make a match with the Rottingdean Fibber; and enchanted
by the Pet's conversation, had passed the evening in
company with that scientific man and his friends, at the inn
in question.

"I--I'd best go and settle the score," James continued.
"Couldn't think of asking you, Ma'am," he added,
generously.

This delicacy made his aunt laugh the more.

"Go and settle the bill, Bowls," she said, with a wave of
her hand, "and bring it to me."

Poor lady, she did not know what she had done! "There
--there's a little dawg," said James, looking frightfully
guilty. "I'd best go for him. He bites footmen's calves."

All the party cried out with laughing at this description;
even Briggs and Lady Jane, who was sitting mute
during the interview between Miss Crawley and her
nephew: and Bowls, without a word, quitted the room.

Still, by way of punishing her elder nephew, Miss
Crawley persisted in being gracious to the young Oxonian.
There were no limits to her kindness or her compliments
when they once began. She told Pitt he might come to
dinner, and insisted that James should accompany her
in her drive, and paraded him solemnly up and down the
cliff, on the back seat of the barouche. During all this
excursion, she condescended to say civil things to him:
she quoted Italian and French poetry to the poor
bewildered lad, and persisted that he was a fine scholar,
and was perfectly sure he would gain a gold medal, and
be a Senior Wrangler.

"Haw, haw," laughed James, encouraged by these
compliments; "Senior Wrangler, indeed; that's at the other
shop."

"What is the other shop, my dear child?" said the lady.

"Senior Wranglers at Cambridge, not Oxford," said the
scholar, with a knowing air; and would probably have
been more confidential, but that suddenly there
appeared on the cliff in a tax-cart, drawn by a bang-up
pony, dressed in white flannel coats, with mother-of-pearl
buttons, his friends the Tutbury Pet and the Rottingdean
Fibber, with three other gentlemen of their acquaintance,
who all saluted poor James there in the carriage as he
sate. This incident damped the ingenuous youth's spirits,
and no word of yea or nay could he be induced to utter
during the rest of the drive.

On his return he found his room prepared, and his
portmanteau ready, and might have remarked that Mr.
Bowls's countenance, when the latter conducted him to
his apartments, wore a look of gravity, wonder, and
compassion. But the thought of Mr. Bowls did not enter
his head. He was deploring the dreadful predicament
in which he found himself, in a house full of old women,
jabbering French and Italian, and talking poetry to him.
"Reglarly up a tree, by jingo!" exclaimed the modest
boy, who could not face the gentlest of her sex--not
even Briggs--when she began to talk to him; whereas,
put him at Iffley Lock, and he could out-slang the
boldest bargeman.

At dinner, James appeared choking in a white
neckcloth, and had the honour of handing my Lady Jane
downstairs, while Briggs and Mr. Crawley followed
afterwards, conducting the old lady, with her apparatus of
bundles, and shawls, and cushions. Half of Briggs's time
at dinner was spent in superintending the invalid's
comfort, and in cutting up chicken for her fat spaniel. James
did not talk much, but he made a point of asking all
the ladies to drink wine, and accepted Mr. Crawley's
challenge, and consumed the greater part of a bottle of
champagne which Mr. Bowls was ordered to produce in
his honour. The ladies having withdrawn, and the two
cousins being left together, Pitt, the ex-diplomatist, be
came very communicative and friendly. He asked after
James's career at college--what his prospects in life
were--hoped heartily he would get on; and, in a word,
was frank and amiable. James's tongue unloosed with
the port, and he told his cousin his life, his prospects,
his debts, his troubles at the little-go, and his rows with
the proctors, filling rapidly from the bottles before him,
and flying from Port to Madeira with joyous activity.

"The chief pleasure which my aunt has," said Mr.
Crawley, filling his glass, "is that people should do as they
like in her house. This is Liberty Hall, James, and you
can't do Miss Crawley a greater kindness than to do
as you please, and ask for what you will. I know you
have all sneered at me in the country for being a Tory.
Miss Crawley is liberal enough to suit any fancy. She
is a Republican in principle, and despises everything like
rank or title."

"Why are you going to marry an Earl's daughter?"
said James.

"My dear friend, remember it is not poor Lady Jane's
fault that she is well born," Pitt replied, with a courtly
air. "She cannot help being a lady. Besides, I am a
Tory, you know."

"Oh, as for that," said Jim, "there's nothing like old
blood; no, dammy, nothing like it. I'm none of your
radicals. I know what it is to be a gentleman, dammy.
See the chaps in a boat-race; look at the fellers in a
fight; aye, look at a dawg killing rats--which is it wins?
the good-blooded ones. Get some more port, Bowls, old
boy, whilst I buzz this bottle-here. What was I asaying?"

"I think you were speaking of dogs killing rats," Pitt
remarked mildly, handing his cousin the decanter to
"buzz.~

"Killing rats was I? Well, Pitt, are you a sporting
man? Do you want to see a dawg as CAN kill a rat?
If you do, come down with me to Tom Corduroy's, in
Castle Street Mews, and I'll show you such a bull-terrier
as--Pooh! gammon," cried James, bursting out laughing
at his own absurdity--"YOU don't care about a dawg
or rat; it's all nonsense. I'm blest if I think you know
the difference between a dog and a duck."

"No; by the way," Pitt continued with increased blandness,
"it was about blood you were talking, and the
personal advantages which people derive from patrician
birth. Here's the fresh bottle."

"Blood's the word," said James, gulping the ruby fluid
down. "Nothing like blood, sir, in hosses, dawgs, AND
men. Why, only last term, just before I was rusticated,
that is, I mean just before I had the measles, ha, ha--there
was me and Ringwood of Christchurch, Bob Ringwood,
Lord Cinqbars' son, having our beer at the Bell at
Blenheim, when the Banbury bargeman offered to fight either
of us for a bowl of punch. I couldn't. My arm was in a
sling; couldn't even take the drag down--a brute of a
mare of mine had fell with me only two days before,
out with the Abingdon, and I thought my arm was broke.
Well, sir, I couldn't finish him, but Bob had his coat
off at once--he stood up to the Banbury man for three
minutes, and polished him off in four rounds easy. Gad,
how he did drop, sir, and what was it? Blood, sir, all
blood."

"You don't drink, James," the ex-attache continued.
"In my time at Oxford, the men passed round the bottle
a little quicker than you young fellows seem to do."

"Come, come," said James, putting his hand to his
nose and winking at his cousin with a pair of vinous
eyes, "no jokes, old boy; no trying it on on me. You
want to trot me out, but it's no go. In vino veritas, old
boy. Mars, Bacchus, Apollo virorum, hey? I wish my
aunt would send down some of this to the governor; it's
a precious good tap."

"You had better ask her," Machiavel continued, "or
make the best of your time now. What says the bard?
'Nunc vino pellite curas, Cras ingens iterabimus aequor,' "
and the Bacchanalian, quoting the above with a House
of Commons air, tossed off nearly a thimbleful of wine
with an immense flourish of his glass.

At the Rectory, when the bottle of port wine was
opened after dinner, the young ladies had each a glass
from a bottle of currant wine. Mrs. Bute took one glass
of port, honest James had a couple commonly, but as
his father grew very sulky if he made further inroads
on the bottle, the good lad generally refrained from
trying for more, and subsided either into the currant wine,
or to some private gin-and-water in the stables, which
he enjoyed in the company of the coachman and his
pipe. At Oxford, the quantity of wine was unlimited,
but the quality was inferior: but when quantity and
quality united as at his aunt's house, James showed that
he could appreciate them indeed; and hardly needed any
of his cousin's encouragement in draining off the
second bottle supplied by Mr. Bowls.

When the time for coffee came, however, and for a
return to the ladies, of whom he stood in awe, the young
gentleman's agreeable frankness left him, and he relapsed
into his usual surly timidity; contenting himself by
saying yes and no, by scowling at Lady Jane, and by
upsetting one cup of coffee during the evening.

If he did not speak he yawned in a pitiable manner,
and his presence threw a damp upon the modest
proceedings of the evening, for Miss Crawley and Lady Jane
at their piquet, and Miss Briggs at her work, felt that
his eyes were wildly fixed on them, and were uneasy
under that maudlin look.

"He seems a very silent, awkward, bashful lad," said
Miss Crawley to Mr. Pitt.

"He is more communicative in men's society than with
ladies," Machiavel dryly replied: perhaps rather
disappointed that the port wine had not made Jim
speak more.

He had spent the early part of the next morning in
writing home to his mother a most flourishing account
of his reception by Miss Crawley. But ah! he little knew
what evils the day was bringing for him, and how short his
reign of favour was destined to be. A circumstance
which Jim had forgotten--a trivial but fatal circumstance
--had taken place at the Cribb's Arms on the night
before he had come to his aunt's house. It was no other
than this--Jim, who was always of a generous disposition,
and when in his cups especially hospitable, had in the
course of the night treated the Tutbury champion and
the Rottingdean man, and their friends, twice or thrice
to the refreshment of gin-and-water--so that no less than
eighteen glasses of that fluid at eightpence per glass were
charged in Mr. James Crawley's bill. It was not the
amount of eightpences, but the quantity of gin which
told fatally against poor James's character, when his
aunt's butler, Mr. Bowls, went down at his mistress's
request to pay the young gentleman's bill. The landlord,
fearing lest the account should be refused altogether,
swore solemnly that the young gent had consumed
personally every farthing's worth of the liquor: and Bowls
paid the bill finally, and showed it on his return home
to Mrs. Firkin, who was shocked at the frightful
prodigality of gin; and took the bill to Miss Briggs as
accountant-general; who thought it her duty to mention
the circumstance to her principal, Miss Crawley.

Had he drunk a dozen bottles of claret, the old
spinster could have pardoned him. Mr. Fox and Mr.
Sheridan drank claret. Gentlemen drank claret. But eighteen
glasses of gin consumed among boxers in an ignoble
pot-house--it was an odious crime and not to be
pardoned readily. Everything went against the lad: he came
home perfumed from the stables, whither he had been
to pay his dog Towzer a visit--and whence he was
going to take his friend out for an airing, when he met
Miss Crawley and her wheezy Blenheim spaniel, which
Towzer would have eaten up had not the Blenheim fled
squealing to the protection of Miss Briggs, while the
atrocious master of the bull-dog stood laughing at the
horrible persecution.

This day too the unlucky boy's modesty had likewise
forsaken him. He was lively and facetious at dinner.
During the repast he levelled one or two jokes against Pitt
Crawley: he drank as much wine as upon the previous
day; and going quite unsuspiciously to the drawing-room,
began to entertain the ladies there with some choice
Oxford stories. He described the different pugilistic qualities
of Molyneux and Dutch Sam, offered playfully to give
Lady Jane the odds upon the Tutbury Pet against the
Rottingdean man, or take them, as her Ladyship chose:
and crowned the pleasantry by proposing to back
himself against his cousin Pitt Crawley, either with or without
the gloves. "And that's a fair offer, my buck," he said,
with a loud laugh, slapping Pitt on the shoulder, "and
my father told me to make it too, and he'll go halves
in the bet, ha, ha!" So saying, the engaging youth nodded
knowingly at poor Miss Briggs, and pointed his thumb
over his shoulder at Pitt Crawley in a jocular and
exulting manner.

Pitt was not pleased altogether perhaps, but still not
unhappy in the main. Poor Jim had his laugh out: and
staggered across the room with his aunt's candle, when
the old lady moved to retire, and offered to salute her
with the blandest tipsy smile: and he took his own leave
and went upstairs to his bedroom perfectly satisfied with
himself, and with a pleased notion that his aunt's money
would be left to him in preference to his father and all
the rest of the family.

Once up in the bedroom, one would have thought he
could not make matters worse; and yet this unlucky boy
did. The moon was shining very pleasantly out on the
sea, and Jim, attracted to the window by the romantic
appearance of the ocean and the heavens, thought he
would further enjoy them while smoking. Nobody would
smell the tobacco, he thought, if he cunningly opened
the window and kept his head and pipe in the fresh air.
This he did: but being in an excited state, poor Jim
had forgotten that his door was open all this time, so
that the breeze blowing inwards and a fine thorough
draught being established, the clouds of tobacco were
carried downstairs, and arrived with quite undiminished
fragrance to Miss Crawley and Miss Briggs.

The pipe of tobacco finished the business: and the
Bute-Crawleys never knew how many thousand pounds
it cost them. Firkin rushed downstairs to Bowls who
was reading out the "Fire and the Frying Pan" to his
aide-de-camp in a loud and ghostly voice. The dreadful
secret was told to him by Firkin with so frightened a look,
that for the first moment Mr. Bowls and his young man
thought that robbers were in the house, the legs of whom
had probably been discovered by the woman under Miss
Crawley's bed. When made aware of the fact, however
--to rush upstairs at three steps at a time to enter
the unconscious James's apartment, calling out, "Mr.
James," in a voice stifled with alarm, and to cry, "For
Gawd's sake, sir, stop that 'ere pipe," was the work of
a minute with Mr. Bowls. "O, Mr. James, what 'AVE you
done!" he said in a voice of the deepest pathos, as he
threw the implement out of the window. "What 'ave you
done, sir! Missis can't abide 'em."

"Missis needn't smoke," said James with a frantic
misplaced laugh, and thought the whole matter an excellent
joke. But his feelings were very different in the morning,
when Mr. Bowls's young man, who operated upon Mr.
James's boots, and brought him his hot water to shave
that beard which he was so anxiously expecting, handed
a note in to Mr. James in bed, in the handwriting of
Miss Briggs.

"Dear sir," it said, "Miss Crawley has passed an
exceedingly disturbed night, owing to the shocking manner
in which the house has been polluted by tobacco; Miss
Crawley bids me say she regrets that she is too unwell
to see you before you go--and above all that she ever
induced you to remove from the ale-house, where she is
sure you will be much more comfortable during the rest
of your stay at Brighton."

And herewith honest James's career as a candidate for
his aunt's favour ended. He had in fact, and without
knowing it, done what he menaced to do. He had fought
his cousin Pitt with the gloves.

Where meanwhile was he who had been once first
favourite for this race for money? Becky and Rawdon,
as we have seen, were come together after Waterloo,
and were passing the winter of 1815 at Paris in great
splendour and gaiety. Rebecca was a good economist,
and the price poor Jos Sedley had paid for her two
horses was in itself sufficient to keep their little
establishment afloat for a year, at the least; there was no
occasion to turn into money "my pistols, the same which
I shot Captain Marker," or the gold dressing-case, or
the cloak lined with sable. Becky had it made into a
pelisse for herself, in which she rode in the Bois de
Boulogne to the admiration of all: and you should have
seen the scene between her and her delighted husband,
whom she rejoined after the army had entered Cambray,
and when she unsewed herself, and let out of her dress
all those watches, knick-knacks, bank-notes, cheques, and
valuables, which she had secreted in the wadding, previous
to her meditated flight from Brussels! Tufto was charmed,
and Rawdon roared with delighted laughter, and swore
that she was better than any play he ever saw, by Jove.
And the way in which she jockeyed Jos, and which
she described with infinite fun, carried up his delight to
a pitch of quite insane enthusiasm. He believed in his
wife as much as the French soldiers in Napoleon.

Her success in Paris was remarkable. All the French
ladies voted her charming. She spoke their language
admirably. She adopted at once their grace, their liveliness,
their manner. Her husband was stupid certainly--all
English are stupid--and, besides, a dull husband at Paris is
always a point in a lady's favour. He was the heir of the
rich and spirituelle Miss Crawley, whose house had been
open to so many of the French noblesse during the
emigration. They received the colonel's wife in their own
hotels--"Why," wrote a great lady to Miss Crawley, who
had bought her lace and trinkets at the Duchess's own
price, and given her many a dinner during the pinching
times after the Revolution--"Why does not our dear Miss
come to her nephew and niece, and her attached friends
in Paris? All the world raffoles of the charming Mistress
and her espiegle beauty. Yes, we see in her the grace,
the charm, the wit of our dear friend Miss Crawley!
The King took notice of her yesterday at the Tuileries,
and we are all jealous of the attention which Monsieur
pays her. If you could have seen the spite of a certain
stupid Miladi Bareacres (whose eagle-beak and toque
and feat,hers may be seen peering over the heads of all
assemblies) when Madame, the Duchess of Angouleme,
the august daughter and companion of kings, desired
especially to be presented to Mrs. Crawley, as your dear
daughter and protegee, and thanked her in the name
of France, for all your benevolence towards our
unfortunates during their exile! She is of all the societies,
of all the balls--of the balls--yes--of the dances, no;
and yet how interesting and pretty this fair creature looks
surrounded by the homage of the men, and so soon to
be a mother! To hear her speak of you, her protectress,
her mother, would bring tears to the eyes of ogres. How
she loves you! how we all love our admirable, our
respectable Miss Crawley!"

It is to be feared that this letter of the Parisian great
lady did not by any means advance Mrs. Becky's interest
with her admirable, her respectable, relative. On the
contrary, the fury of the old spinster was beyond bounds,
when she found what was Rebecca's situation, and how
audaciously she had made use of Miss Crawley's name,
to get an entree into Parisian society. Too much shaken
in mind and body to compose a letter in the French
language in reply to that of her correspondent, she
dictated to Briggs a furious answer in her own native tongue,
repudiating Mrs. Rawdon Crawley altogether, and warning
the public to beware of her as a most artful and
dangerous person. But as Madame the Duchess of X--
had only been twenty years in England, she did not
understand a single word of the language, and contented
herself by informing Mrs. Rawdon Crawley at their next
meeting, that she had received a charming letter from
that chere Mees, and that it was full of benevolent
things for Mrs. Crawley, who began seriously to have
hopes that the spinster would relent.

Meanwhile, she was the gayest and most admired of
Englishwomen: and had a little European congress on her
reception-night. Prussians and Cossacks, Spanish and
English--all the world was at Paris during this famous
winter: to have seen the stars and cordons in Rebecca's
humble saloon would have made all Baker Street pale
with envy. Famous warriors rode by her carriage in
the Bois, or crowded her modest little box at the Opera.
Rawdon was in the highest spirits. There were no duns
in Paris as yet: there were parties every day at Very's
or Beauvilliers'; play was plentiful and his luck good.
Tufto perhaps was sulky. Mrs. Tufto had come over to
Paris at her own invitation, and besides this
contretemps, there were a score of generals now round
Becky's chair, and she might take her choice of a dozen
bouquets when she went to the play. Lady Bareacres
and the chiefs of the English society, stupid and
irreproachable females, writhed with anguish at the
success of the little upstart Becky, whose poisoned jokes
quivered and rankled in their chaste breasts. But she
had all the men on her side. She fought the women
with indomitable courage, and they could not talk
scandal in any tongue but their own.

So in fetes, pleasures, and prosperity, the winter of
1815-16 passed away with Mrs. Rawdon Crawley,
who accommodated herself to polite life as if her
ancestors had been people of fashion for centuries past--
and who from her wit, talent, and energy, indeed merited
a place of honour in Vanity Fair. In the early spring of
1816, Galignani's Journal contained the following
announcement in an interesting corner of the paper: "On
the 26th of March--the Lady of Lieutenant-Colonel
Crawley, of the Life Guards Green--of a son and heir."

This event was copied into the London papers, out of
which Miss Briggs read the statement to Miss Crawley,
at breakfast, at Brighton. The intelligence, expected as
it might have been, caused a crisis in the affairs of
the Crawley family. The spinster's rage rose to its height,
and sending instantly for Pitt, her nephew, and for the
Lady Southdown, from Brunswick Square, she requested
an immediate celebration of the marriage which had been
so long pending between the two families. And she
announced that it was her intention to allow the young
couple a thousand a year during her lifetime, at the
expiration of which the bulk of her property would be
settled upon her nephew and her dear niece, Lady Jane
Crawley. Waxy came down to ratify the deeds--Lord
Southdown gave away his sister--she was married by a
Bishop, and not by the Rev. Bartholomew Irons--to the
disappointment of the irregular prelate.

When they were married, Pitt would have liked to
take a hymeneal tour with his bride, as became people
of their condition. But the affection of the old lady
towards Lady Jane had grown so strong, that she fairly
owned she could not part with her favourite. Pitt and
his wife came therefore and lived with Miss Crawley:
and (greatly to the annoyance of poor Pitt, who
conceived himself a most injured character--being subject
to the humours of his aunt on one side, and of his
mother-in-law on the other) Lady Southdown, from her
neighbouring house, reigned over the whole family--
Pitt, Lady Jane, Miss Crawley, Briggs, Bowls, Firkin, and
all. She pitilessly dosed them with her tracts and her
medicine, she dismissed Creamer, she installed Rodgers,
and soon stripped Miss Crawley of even the semblance
of authority. The poor soul grew so timid that she
actually left off bullying Briggs any more, and clung to
her niece, more fond and terrified every day. Peace to
thee, kind and selfish, vain and generous old heathen!--
We shall see thee no more. Let us hope that Lady Jane
supported her kindly, and led her with gentle hand out
of the busy struggle of Vanity Fair.

CHAPTER XXXV

Widow and Mother

The news of the great fights of Quatre Bras and Waterloo
reached England at the same time. The Gazette first
published the result of the two battles; at which glorious
intelligence all England thrilled with triumph and fear.
Particulars then followed; and after the announcement of
the victories came the list of the wounded and the slain.
Who can tell the dread with which that catalogue was
opened and read! Fancy, at every village and homestead
almost through the three kingdoms, the great news
coming of the battles in Flanders, and the feelings of
exultation and gratitude, bereavement and sickening dismay,
when the lists of the regimental losses were gone through,
and it became known whether the dear friend and relative
had escaped or fallen. Anybody who will take the trouble
of looking back to a file of the newspapers of the
time, must, even now, feel at second-hand this breathless
pause of expectation. The lists of casualties are carried
on from day to day: you stop in the midst as in a story
which is to be continued in our next. Think what the
feelings must have been as those papers followed each
other fresh from the press; and if such an interest could
be felt in our country, and about a battle where but
twenty thousand of our people were engaged, think of
the condition of Europe for twenty years before, where
people were fighting, not by thousands, but by millions;
each one of whom as he struck his enemy wounded
horribly some other innocent heart far away.

The news which that famous Gazette brought to the
Osbornes gave a dreadful shock to the family and its chief.
The girls indulged unrestrained in their grief. The
gloom-stricken old father was still more borne down by his fate
and sorrow. He strove to think that a judgment was on
the boy for his disobedience. He dared not own that the
severity of the sentence frightened him, and that its
fulfilment had come too soon upon his curses. Sometimes a
shuddering terror struck him, as if he had been the author
of the doom which he had called down on his son. There
was a chance before of reconciliation. The boy's wife
might have died; or he might have come back and said,
Father I have sinned. But there was no hope now. He
stood on the other side of the gulf impassable, haunting
his parent with sad eyes. He remembered them once
before so in a fever, when every one thought the lad was
dying, and he lay on his bed speechless, and gazing with a
dreadful gloom. Good God! how the father clung to the
doctor then, and with what a sickening anxiety he
followed him: what a weight of grief was off his mind when,
after the crisis of the fever, the lad recovered, and looked
at his father once more with eyes that recognised him.
But now there was no help or cure, or chance of
reconcilement: above all, there were no humble words to
soothe vanity outraged and furious, or bring to its natural
flow the poisoned, angry blood. And it is hard to say
which pang it was that tore the proud father's heart most
keenly--that his son should have gone out of the reach
of his forgiveness, or that the apology which his own
pride expected should have escaped him.

Whatever his sensations might have been, however, the
stem old man would have no confidant. He never
mentioned his son's name to his daughters; but ordered the
elder to place all the females of the establishment in
mourning; and desired that the male servants should be
similarly attired in deep black. All parties and entertainments,
of course, were to be put off. No communications
were made to his future son-in-law, whose marriage-day
had been fixed: but there was enough in Mr. Osborne's
appearance to prevent Mr. Bullock from making any
inquiries, or in any way pressing forward that ceremony.
He and the ladies whispered about it under their voices
in the drawing-room sometimes, whither the father never
came. He remained constantly in his own study; the
whole front part of the house being closed until some
time after the completion of the general mourning.

About three weeks after the 18th of June, Mr.
Osborne's acquaintance, Sir William Dobbin, called at Mr.
Osborne's house in Russell Square, with a very pale and
agitated face, and insisted upon seeing that gentleman.
Ushered into his room, and after a few words, which
neither the speaker nor the host understood, the former
produced from an inclosure a letter sealed with a large
red seal. "My son, Major Dobbin," the Alderman said,
with some hesitation, "despatched me a letter by an
officer of the --th, who arrived in town to-day. My son's
letter contains one for you, Osborne." The Alderman
placed the letter on the table, and Osborne stared at him
for a moment or two in silence. His looks frightened the
ambassador, who after looking guiltily for a little time at
the grief-stricken man, hurried away without another
word.

The letter was in George's well-known bold handwriting.
It was that one which he had written before daybreak
on the 16th of June, and just before he took leave
of Amelia. The great red seal was emblazoned with the
sham coat of arms which Osborne had assumed from
the Peerage, with "Pax in bello" for a motto; that of the
ducal house with which the vain old man tried to fancy
himself connected. The hand that signed it would never
hold pen or sword more. The very seal that sealed it
had been robbed from George's dead body as it lay on the
field of battle. The father knew nothing of this, but sat and
looked at the letter in terrified vacancy. He almost fell
when he went to open it.

Have you ever had a difference with a dear friend?
How his letters, written in the period of love and
confidence, sicken and rebuke you! What a dreary mourning
it is to dwell upon those vehement protests of dead
affection! What lying epitaphs they make over the corpse of
love! What dark, cruel comments upon Life and Vanities!
Most of us have got or written drawers full of them.
They are closet-skeletons which we keep and shun.
Osborne trembled long before the letter from his dead
son.

The poor boy's letter did not say much. He had been
too proud to acknowledge the tenderness which his heart
felt. He only said, that on the eve of a great battle, he
wished to bid his father farewell, and solemnly to implore
his good offices for the wife--it might be for the child--
whom he left behind him. He owned with contrition that
his irregularities and his extravagance had already wasted
a large part of his mother's little fortune. He thanked his
father for his former generous conduct; and he promised
him that if he fell on the field or survived it, he would
act in a manner worthy of the name of George Osborne.

His English habit, pride, awkwardness perhaps, had
prevented him from saying more. His father could not
see the kiss George had placed on the superscription of
his letter. Mr. Osborne dropped it with the bitterest,
deadliest pang of balked affection and revenge. His son
was still beloved and unforgiven.

About two months afterwards, however, as the young
ladies of the family went to church with their father, they
remarked how he took a different seat from that which
he usually occupied when he chose to attend divine
worship; and that from his cushion opposite, he looked up at
the wall over their heads. This caused the young women
likewise to gaze in the direction towards which their
father's gloomy eyes pointed: and they saw an elaborate
monument upon the wall, where Britannia was represented
weeping over an urn, and a broken sword and a
couchant lion indicated that the piece of sculpture had
been erected in honour of a deceased warrior. The
sculptors of those days had stocks of such funereal
emblems in hand; as you may see still on the walls of St.
Paul's, which are covered with hundreds of these
braggart heathen allegories. There was a constant demand
for them during the first fifteen years of the present
century.

Under the memorial in question were emblazoned the
well-known and pompous Osborne arms; and the
inscription said, that the monument was "Sacred to the
memory of George Osborne, Junior, Esq., late a Captain
in his Majesty's --th regiment of foot, who fell on the
18th of June, 1815, aged 28 years, while fighting for his
king and country in the glorious victory of Waterloo.
Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori."

The sight of that stone agitated the nerves of the
sisters so much, that Miss Maria was compelled to leave
the church. The congregation made way respectfully for
those sobbing girls clothed in deep black, and pitied the
stern old father seated opposite the memorial of the dead
soldier. "Will he forgive Mrs. George?" the girls said to
themselves as soon as their ebullition of grief was over.
Much conversation passed too among the acquaintances
of the Osborne family, who knew of the rupture between
the son and father caused by the former's marriage, as
to the chance of a reconciliation with the young widow.
There were bets among the gentlemen both about Russell
Square and in the City.

If the sisters had any anxiety regarding the possible
recognition of Amelia as a daughter of the family, it
was increased presently, and towards the end of the
autumn, by their father's announcement that he was going
abroad. He did not say whither, but they knew at once
that his steps would be turned towards Belgium, and were
aware that George's widow was still in Brussels. They
had pretty accurate news indeed of poor Amelia from
Lady Dobbin and her daughters. Our honest Captain had
been promoted in consequence of the death of the second
Major of the regiment on the field; and the brave O'Dowd,
who had distinguished himself greatly here as upon all
occasions where he had a chance to show his coolness
and valour, was a Colonel and Companion of the Bath.

Very many of the brave --th, who had suffered
severely upon both days of action, were still at Brussels
in the autumn, recovering of their wounds. The city was
a vast military hospital for months after the great battles;
and as men and officers began to rally from their hurts,
the gardens and places of public resort swarmed with
maimed warriors, old and young, who, just rescued out of
death, fell to gambling, and gaiety, and love-making, as
people of Vanity Fair will do. Mr. Osborne found out
some of the --th easily. He knew their uniform quite
well, and had been used to follow all the promotions and
exchanges in the regiment, and loved to talk about it and
its officers as if he had been one of the number. On the
day after his arrival at Brussels, and as he issued from
his hotel, which faced the park, he saw a soldier in the
well-known facings, reposing on a stone bench in the
garden, and went and sate down trembling by the
wounded convalescent man.

"Were you in Captain Osborne's company?" he said,
and added, after a pause, "he was my son, sir."

The man was not of the Captain's company, but he
lifted up his unwounded arm and touched-his cap sadly
and respectfully to the haggard broken-spirited gentleman
who questioned him. "The whole army didn't contain
a finer or a better officer," the soldier said. "The Sergeant
of the Captain's company (Captain Raymond had it
now), was in town, though, and was just well of a shot
in the shoulder. His honour might see him if he liked,
who could tell him anything he wanted to know about--
about the --th's actions. But his honour had seen
Major Dobbin, no doubt, the brave Captain's great
friend; and Mrs. Osborne, who was here too, and had
been very bad, he heard everybody say. They say she
was out of her mind like for six weeks or more. But your
honour knows all about that--and asking your pardon"
--the man added.

Osborne put a guinea into the soldier's hand, and told
him he should have another if he would bring the Sergeant
to the Hotel du Parc; a promise which very soon
brought the desired officer to Mr. Osborne's presence.
And the first soldier went away; and after telling a
comrade or two how Captain Osborne's father was arrived,
and what a free-handed generous gentleman he was, they
went and made good cheer with drink and feasting, as
long as the guineas lasted which had come from the
proud purse of the mourning old father.

In the Sergeant's company, who was also just convalescent,
Osborne made the journey of Waterloo and
Quatre Bras, a journey which thousands of his countrymen
were then taking. He took the Sergeant with him in
his carriage, and went through both fields under his
guidance. He saw the point of the road where the regiment
marched into action on the 16th, and the slope down
which they drove the French cavalry who were pressing
on the retreating Belgians. There was the spot where the
noble Captain cut down the French officer who was
grappling with the young Ensign for the colours, the
Colour-Sergeants having been shot down. Along this road
they retreated on the next day, and here was the bank
at which the regiment bivouacked under the rain of the
night of the seventeenth. Further on was the position
which they took and held during the day, forming time
after time to receive the charge of the enemy's horsemen
and lying down under the shelter of the bank from the
furious French cannonade. And it was at this declivity
when at evening the whole English line received the order
to advance, as the enemy fell back after his last charge,
that the Captain, hurraying and rushing down the hill
waving his sword, received a shot and fell dead. "It was
Major Dobbin who took back the Captain's body to
Brussels," the Sergeant said, in a low voice, "and had him
buried, as your honour knows." The peasants and relic-
hunters about the place were screaming round the pair,
as the soldier told his story, offering for sale all sorts of
mementoes of the fight, crosses, and epaulets, and
shattered cuirasses, and eagles.

Osborne gave a sumptuous reward to the Sergeant
when he parted with him, after having visited the scenes
of his son's last exploits. His burial-place he had already
seen. Indeed, he had driven thither immediately after his
arrival at Brussels. George's body lay in the pretty burial-
ground of Laeken, near the city; in which place, having
once visited it on a party of pleasure, he had lightly
expressed a wish to have his grave made. And there the
young officer was laid by his friend, in the unconsecrated
corner of the garden, separated by a little hedge from
the temples and towers and plantations of flowers and
shrubs, under which the Roman Catholic dead repose. It
seemed a humiliation to old Osborne to think that his
son, an English gentleman, a captain in the famous British
army, should not be found worthy to lie in ground where
mere foreigners were buried. Which of us is there can
tell how much vanity lurks in our warmest regard for
others, and how selfish our love is? Old Osborne did
not speculate much upon the mingled nature of his feelings,
and how his instinct and selfishness were combating
together. He firmly believed that everything he did was
right, that he ought on all occasions to have his own way
--and like the sting of a wasp or serpent his hatred
rushed out armed and poisonous against anything like
opposition. He was proud of his hatred as of everything
else. Always to be right, always to trample forward, and
never to doubt, are not these the great qualities with
which dullness takes the lead in the world?

As after the drive to Waterloo, Mr. Osborne's carriage
was nearing the gates of the city at sunset, they met
another open barouche, in which were a couple of ladies
and a gentleman, and by the side of which an officer was
riding. Osborne gave a start back, and the Sergeant,
seated with him, cast a look of surprise at his neighbour,
as he touched his cap to the officer, who mechanically
returned his salute. It was Amelia, with the lame young
Ensign by her side, and opposite to her her faithful
friend Mrs. O'Dowd. It was Amelia, but how changed
from the fresh and comely girl Osborne knew. Her face
was white and thin. Her pretty brown hair was parted
under a widow's cap--the poor child. Her eyes were
fixed, and looking nowhere. They stared blank in the
face of Osborne, as the carriages crossed each other, but
she did not know him; nor did he recognise her, until
looking up, he saw Dobbin riding by her: and then he
knew who it was. He hated her. He did not know how
much until he saw her there. When her carriage had
passed on, he turned and stared at the Sergeant, with a
curse and defiance in his eye cast at his companion, who
could not help looking at him--as much as to say "How
dare you look at me? Damn you! I do hate her. It is she
who has tumbled my hopes and all my pride down."
"Tell the scoundrel to drive on quick," he shouted with
an oath, to the lackey on the box. A minute afterwards, a
horse came clattering over the pavement behind
Osborne's carriage, and Dobbin rode up. His thoughts
had been elsewhere as the carriages passed each other,
and it was not until he had ridden some paces forward,
that he remembered it was Osborne who had just passed
him. Then he turned to examine if the sight of her father-
in-law had made any impression on Amelia, but the poor
girl did not know who had passed. Then William, who
daily used to accompany her in his drives, taking out his
watch, made some excuse about an engagement which he
suddenly recollected, and so rode off. She did not
remark that either: but sate looking before her, over the
homely landscape towards the woods in the distance, by
which George marched away.

Mr. Osborne, Mr. Osborne!" cried Dobbin, as he rode
up and held out his hand. Osborne made no motion to
take it, but shouted out once more and with another curse
to his servant to drive on.

Dobbin laid his hand on the carriage side. "I will see
you, sir," he said. "I have a message for you."

"From that woman?" said Osborne, fiercely.

"No," replied the other, "from your son"; at which
Osborne fell back into the corner of his carriage, and
Dobbin allowing it to pass on, rode close behind it, and
so through the town until they reached Mr. Osborne's
hotel, and without a word. There he followed Osborne
up to his apartments. George had often been in the
rooms; they were the lodgings which the Crawleys had
occupied during their stay in Brussels.

"Pray, have you any commands for me, Captain
Dobbin, or, I beg your pardon, I should say MAJOR Dobbin,
since better men than you are dead, and you step into
their SHOES?" said Mr. Osborne, in that sarcastic tone
which he sometimes was pleased to assume.

"Better men ARE dead," Dobbin replied. "I want to
speak to you about one."

"Make it short, sir," said the other with an oath,
scowling at his visitor.

"I am here as his closest friend," the Major resumed,
"and the executor of his will. He made it before he went
into action. Are you aware how small his means are,
and of the straitened circumstances of his widow?"

"I don't know his widow, sir," Osborne said. "Let her
go back to her father." But the gentleman whom he
addressed was determined to remain in good temper, and
went on without heeding the interruption.

"Do you know, sir, Mrs. Osborne's condition? Her life
and her reason almost have been shaken by the blow
which has fallen on her. It is very doubtful whether she
will rally. There is a chance left for her, however, and it
is about this I came to speak to you. She will be a mother
soon. Will you visit the parent's offence upon the child's
head? or will you forgive the child for poor George's
sake?"

Osborne broke out into a rhapsody of self-praise and
imprecations;--by the first, excusing himself to his own
conscience for his conduct; by the second, exaggerating
the undutifulness of George. No father in all England
could have behaved more generously to a son, who had
rebelled against him wickedly. He had died without even
so much as confessing he was wrong. Let him take
the consequences of his undutifulness and folly. As for
himself, Mr. Osborne, he was a man of his word. He
had sworn never to speak to that woman, or to recognize
her as his son's wife. "And that's what you may tell
her," he concluded with an oath; "and that's what I will
stick to to the last day of my life."

There was no hope from that quarter then. The widow
must live on her slender pittance, or on such aid as Jos
could give her. "I might tell her, and she would not heed
it," thought Dobbin, sadly: for the poor girl's thoughts
were not here at all since her catastrophe, and, stupefied
under the pressure of her sorrow, good and evil were
alike indifferent to her.

So, indeed, were even friendship and kindness. She
received them both uncomplainingly, and having accepted
them, relapsed into her grief.

Suppose some twelve months after the above conversation
took place to have passed in the life of our poor
Amelia. She has spent the first portion of that time in a
sorrow so profound and pitiable, that we who have been
watching and describing some of the emotions of that
weak and tender heart, must draw back in the presence
of the cruel grief under which it is bleeding. Tread silently
round the hapless couch of the poor prostrate soul.
Shut gently the door of the dark chamber wherein she
suffers, as those kind people did who nursed her through
the first months of her pain, and never left her until
heaven had sent her consolation. A day came--of
almost terrified delight and wonder--when the poor
widowed girl pressed a child upon her breast--a child, with
the eyes of George who was gone--a little boy, as beautiful
as a cherub. What a miracle it was to hear its first
cry! How she laughed and wept over it--how love, and
hope, and prayer woke again in her bosom as the baby
nestled there. She was safe. The doctors who attended
her, and had feared for her life or for her brain, had
waited anxiously for this crisis before they could
pronounce that either was secure. It was worth the long
months of doubt and dread which the persons who had
constantly been with her had passed, to see her eyes once
more beaming tenderly upon them.

Our friend Dobbin was one of them. It was he who
brought her back to England and to her mother's house;
when Mrs. O'Dowd, receiving a peremptory summons
from her Colonel, had been forced to quit her patient.
To see Dobbin holding the infant, and to hear Amelia's
laugh of triumph as she watched him, would have done
any man good who had a sense of humour. William was
the godfather of the child, and exerted his ingenuity in
the purchase of cups, spoons, pap-boats, and corals for
this little Christian.

How his mother nursed him, and dressed him, and
lived upon him; how she drove away all nurses, and
would scarce allow any hand but her own to touch him;
how she considered that the greatest favour she could
confer upon his godfather, Major Dobbin, was to allow
the Major occasionally to dandle him, need not be told
here. This child was her being. Her existence was a
maternal caress. She enveloped the feeble and unconscious
creature with love and worship. It was her life
which the baby drank in from her bosom. Of nights, and
when alone, she had stealthy and intense raptures of
motherly love, such as God's marvellous care has awarded
to the female instinct--joys how far higher and lower
than reason--blind beautiful devotions which only women's
hearts know. It was William Dobbin's task to muse
upon these movements of Amelia's, and to watch her
heart; and if his love made him divine almost all the feelings
which agitated it, alas! he could see with a fatal
perspicuity that there was no place there for him. And
so, gently, he bore his fate, knowing it, and content to
bear it.

I suppose Amelia's father and mother saw through the
intentions of the Major, and were not ill-disposed to
encourage him; for Dobbin visited their house daily, and
stayed for hours with them, or with Amelia, or with the
honest landlord, Mr. Clapp, and his family. He brought,
on one pretext or another, presents to everybody, and
almost every day; and went, with the landlord's little girl,
who was rather a favourite with Amelia, by the name of
Major Sugarplums. It was this little child who commonly
acted as mistress of the ceremonies to introduce him
to Mrs. Osborne. She laughed one day when Major Sugarplums'
cab drove up to Fulham, and he descended from
it, bringing out a wooden horse, a drum, a trumpet, and
other warlike toys, for little Georgy, who was scarcely
six months old, and for whom the articles in question were
entirely premature.

The child was asleep. "Hush," said Amelia, annoyed,
perhaps, at the creaking of the Major's boots; and she
held out her hand; smiling because William could not
take it until he had rid himself of his cargo of toys. "Go
downstairs, little Mary," said he presently to the child,
"I want to speak to Mrs. Osborne." She looked up rather
astonished, and laid down the infant on its bed.

"I am come to say good-bye, Amelia," said he, taking
her slender little white hand gently.

"Good-bye? and where are you going?" she said, with
a smile.

"Send the letters to the agents," he said; "they will
forward them; for you will write to me, won't you? I
shall be away a long time."

"I'll write to you about Georgy," she said. "Dear' William,
how good you have been to him and to me. Look at
him. Isn't he like an angel?"

The little pink hands of the child closed mechanically
round the honest soldier's finger, and Amelia looked up
in his face with bright maternal pleasure. The cruellest
looks could not have wounded him more than that glance
of hopeless kindness. He bent over the child and mother.
He could not speak for a moment. And it was only with
all his strength that he could force himself to say a God
bless you. "God bless you," said Amelia, and held up her
face and kissed him.

"Hush! Don't wake Georgy!" she added, as William
Dobbin went to the door with heavy steps. She did not
hear the noise of his cab-wheels as he drove away: she
was looking at the child, who was laughing in his sleep.

CHAPTER XXXVI

How to Live Well on Nothing a Year

I suppose there is no man in this Vanity Fair of ours so
little observant as not to think sometimes about the
worldly affairs of his acquaintances, or so extremely
charitable as not to wonder how his neighbour Jones,
or his neighbour Smith, can make both ends meet at the
end of the year. With the utmost regard for the family,
for instance (for I dine with them twice or thrice in the
season), I cannot but own that the appearance of the
Jenkinses in the park, in the large barouche with the
grenadier-footmen, will surprise and mystify me to my
dying day: for though I know the equipage is only
jobbed, and all the Jenkins people are on board wages,
yet those three men and the carriage must represent an
expense of six hundred a year at the very least--and then
there are the splendid dinners, the two boys at Eton, the
prize governess and masters for the girls, the trip
abroad, or to Eastbourne or Worthing, in the autumn,
the annual ball with a supper from Gunter's (who, by the
way, supplies most of the first-rate dinners which J. gives,
as I know very well, having been invited to one of them to
fill a vacant place, when I saw at once that these repasts are
very superior to the common run of entertainments for which the
humbler sort of J.'s acquaintances get cards)--who, I say, with the
most good-natured feelings in the world, can help wondering how
the Jenkinses make out matters? What is Jenkins? We all know
--Commissioner of the Tape and Sealing Wax Office, with
1200 pounds a year for a salary. Had his wife a private
fortune? Pooh!--Miss Flint--one of eleven children of a
small squire in Buckinghamshire. All she ever gets from
her family is a turkey at Christmas, in exchange for which
she has to board two or three of her sisters in the off
season, and lodge and feed her brothers when they
come to town. How does Jenkins balance his income? I
say, as every friend of his must say, How is it that he
has not been outlawed long since, and that he ever came
back (as he did to the surprise of everybody) last year
from Boulogne?

"I" is here introduced to personify the world in
general--the Mrs. Grundy of each respected reader's private
circle--every one of whom can point to some families
of his acquaintance who live nobody knows how. Many
a glass of wine have we all of us drunk, I have very
little doubt, hob-and-nobbing with the hospitable giver
and wondering how the deuce he paid for it.

Some three or four years after his stay in Paris, when
Rawdon Crawley and his wife were established in a very
small comfortable house in Curzon Street, May Fair, there
was scarcely one of the numerous friends whom they
entertained at dinner that did not ask the above question
regarding them. The novelist, it has been said before,
knows everything, and as I am in a situation to be
able to tell the public how Crawley and his wife lived
without any income, may I entreat the public newspapers
which are in the habit of extracting portions of the
various periodical works now published not to reprint
the following exact narrative and calculations--of which
I ought, as the discoverer (and at some expense, too),
to have the benefit? My son, I would say, were I blessed
with a child--you may by deep inquiry and constant
intercourse with him learn how a man lives comfortably
on nothing a year. But it is best not to be intimate with
gentlemen of this profession and to take the calculations
at second hand, as you do logarithms, for to work
them yourself, depend upon it, will cost you something
considerable.

On nothing per annum then, and during a course of
some two or three years, of which we can afford to
give but a very brief history, Crawley and his wife lived
very happily and comfortably at Paris. It was in this
period that he quitted the Guards and sold out of the
army. When we find him again, his mustachios and the
title of Colonel on his card are the only relics of his
military profession.

It has been mentioned that Rebecca, soon after her
arrival in Paris, took a very smart and leading position in
the society of that capital, and was welcomed at some
of the most distinguished houses of the restored French
nobility. The English men of fashion in Paris courted her,
too, to the disgust of the ladies their wives, who could
not bear the parvenue. For some months the salons
of the Faubourg St. Germain, in which her place was
secured, and the splendours of the new Court, where she
was received with much distinction, delighted and
perhaps a little intoxicated Mrs. Crawley, who may have
been disposed during this period of elation to slight the
people--honest young military men mostly--who formed
her husband's chief society.

But the Colonel yawned sadly among the Duchesses
and great ladies of the Court. The old women who
played ecarte made such a noise about a five-franc
piece that it was not worth Colonel Crawley's while to
sit down at a card-table. The wit of their conversation he
could not appreciate, being ignorant of their language.
And what good could his wife get, he urged, by making
curtsies every night to a whole circle of Princesses? He
left Rebecca presently to frequent these parties alone,
resuming his own simple pursuits and amusements
amongst the amiable friends of his own choice.

The truth is, when we say of a gentleman that he
lives elegantly on nothing a year, we use the word
"nothing" to signify something unknown; meaning, simply,
that we don't know how the gentleman in question defrays
the expenses of his establishment. Now, our friend the
Colonel had a great aptitude for all games of chance:
and exercising himself, as he continually did, with the
cards, the dice-box, or the cue, it is natural to suppose
that he attained a much greater skill in the use of these
articles than men can possess who only occasionally
handle them. To use a cue at billiards well is like using a
pencil, or a German flute, or a small-sword--you cannot
master any one of these implements at first, and it is only
by repeated study and perseverance, joined to a natural
taste, that a man can excel in the handling of either.
Now Crawley, from being only a brilliant amateur, had
grown to be a consummate master of billiards. Like a
great General, his genius used to rise with the danger,
and when the luck had been unfavourable to him for a
whole game, and the bets were consequently against him,
he would, with consummate skill and boldness, make
some prodigious hits which would restore the battle, and
come in a victor at the end, to the astonishment of
everybody--of everybody, that is, who was a stranger to his
play. Those who were accustomed to see it were cautious
how they staked their money against a man of such
sudden resources and brilliant and overpowering skill.

At games of cards he was equally skilful; for though
he would constantly lose money at the commencement
of an evening, playing so carelessly and making such
blunders, that newcomers were often inclined to think
meanly of his talent; yet when roused to action and
awakened to caution by repeated small losses, it was
remarked that Crawley's play became quite different, and
that he was pretty sure of beating his enemy thoroughly
before the night was over. Indeed, very few men could
say that they ever had the better of him.
His successes were so repeated that no wonder the
envious and the vanquished spoke sometimes with
bitterness regarding them. And as the French say of the
Duke of Wellington, who never suffered a defeat, that
only an astonishing series of lucky accidents enabled him
to be an invariable winner; yet even they allow that he
cheated at Waterloo, and was enabled to win the last
great trick: so it was hinted at headquarters in England
that some foul play must have taken place in order to
account for the continuous successes of Colonel Crawley.

Though Frascati's and the Salon were open at that time
in Paris, the mania for play was so widely spread that
the public gambling-rooms did not suffice for the general
ardour, and gambling went on in private houses as
much as if there had been no public means for gratifying
the passion. At Crawley's charming little reunions of an
evening this fatal amusement commonly was practised--
much to good-natured little Mrs. Crawley's annoyance.
She spoke about her husband's passion for dice with the
deepest grief; she bewailed it to everybody who came to
her house. She besought the young fellows never, never
to touch a box; and when young Green, of the Rifles,
lost a very considerable sum of money, Rebecca passed a
whole night in tears, as the servant told the unfortunate
young gentleman, and actually went on her knees to her
husband to beseech him to remit the debt, and burn the
acknowledgement. How could he? He had lost just as
much himself to Blackstone of the Hussars, and Count
Punter of the Hanoverian Cavalry. Green might have any
decent time; but pay?--of course he must pay; to talk
of burning IOU's was child's play.

Other officers, chiefly young--for the young fellows
gathered round Mrs. Crawley--came from her parties
with long faces, having dropped more or less money at
her fatal card-tables. Her house began to have an
unfortunate reputation. The old hands warned the less
experienced of their danger. Colonel O'Dowd, of the --th
regiment, one of those occupying in Paris, warned
Lieutenant Spooney of that corps. A loud and violent fracas
took place between the infantry Colonel and his lady,
who were dining at the Cafe de Paris, and Colonel and
Mrs. Crawley; who were also taking their meal there.
The ladies engaged on both sides. Mrs. O'Dowd snapped
her fingers in Mrs. Crawley's face and called her
husband "no betther than a black-leg." Colonel Crawley
challenged Colonel O'Dowd, C.B. The Commander-in-Chief
hearing of the dispute sent for Colonel Crawley, who was
getting ready the same pistols "which he shot Captain
Marker," and had such a conversation with him that no
duel took place. If Rebecca had not gone on her knees
to General Tufto, Crawley would have been sent back
to England; and he did not play, except with civilians,
for some weeks after.

But, in spite of Rawdon's undoubted skill and constant
successes, it became evident to Rebecca, considering
these things, that their position was but a precarious
one, and that, even although they paid scarcely anybody,
their little capital would end one day by dwindling into
zero. "Gambling," she would say, "dear, is good to help
your income, but not as an income itself. Some day
people may be tired of play, and then where are we?"
Rawdon acquiesced in the justice of her opinion; and in
truth he had remarked that after a few nights of his
little suppers, &c., gentlemen were tired of play with him,
and, in spite of Rebecca's charms, did not present
themselves very eagerly.

Easy and pleasant as their life at Paris was, it was
after all only an idle dalliance and amiable trifling; and
Rebecca saw that she must push Rawdon's fortune in
their own country. She must get him a place or appointment
at home or in the colonies, and she determined to
make a move upon England as soon as the way could be
cleared for her. As a first step she had made Crawley
sell out of the Guards and go on half-pay. His function
as aide-de-camp to General Tufto had ceased previously.
Rebecca laughed in all companies at that officer, at his
toupee (which he mounted on coming to Paris), at his
waistband, at his false teeth, at his pretensions to be a
lady-killer above all, and his absurd vanity in fancying
every woman whom he came near was in love with
him. It was to Mrs. Brent, the beetle-browed wife of
Mr. Commissary Brent, to whom the general transferred
his attentions now--his bouquets, his dinners at the
restaurateurs', his opera-boxes, and his knick-knacks. Poor
Mrs. Tufto was no more happy than before, and had still
to pass long evenings alone with her daughters, knowing
that her General was gone off scented and curled to
stand behind Mrs. Brent's chair at the play. Becky had a
dozen admirers in his place, to be sure, and could cut
her rival to pieces with her wit. But, as we have said, she.
was growing tired of this idle social life: opera-boxes and
restaurateur dinners palled upon her: nosegays could not
be laid by as a provision for future years: and she could
not live upon knick-knacks, laced handkerchiefs, and kid
gloves. She felt the frivolity of pleasure and longed for
more substantial benefits.

At this juncture news arrived which was spread among
the many creditors of the Colonel at Paris, and which
caused them great satisfaction. Miss Crawley, the rich
aunt from whom he expected his immense inheritance,
was dying; the Colonel must haste to her bedside. Mrs.
Crawley and her child would remain behind until he
came to reclaim them. He departed for Calais, and having
reached that place in safety, it might have been
supposed that he went to Dover; but instead he took the
diligence to Dunkirk, and thence travelled to Brussels,
for which place he had a former predilection. The fact
is, he owed more money at London than at Paris; and he
preferred the quiet little Belgian city to either of the more
noisy capitals.

Her aunt was dead. Mrs. Crawley ordered the most
intense mourning for herself and little Rawdon. The Colonel
was busy arranging the affairs of the inheritance. They
could take the premier now, instead of the little entresol
of the hotel which they occupied. Mrs. Crawley and the
landlord had a consultation about the new hangings,
an amicable wrangle about the carpets, and a final adjustment
of everything except the bill. She went off in one
of his carriages; her French bonne with her; the child
by her side; the admirable landlord and landlady smiling
farewell to her from the gate. General Tufto was furious
when he heard she was gone, and Mrs. Brent furious
with him for being furious; Lieutenant Spooney was cut
to the heart; and the landlord got ready his best apartments
previous to the return of the fascinating little
woman and her husband. He serred the trunks which
she left in his charge with the greatest care. They had been
especially recommended to him by Madame Crawley. They
were not, however, found to be particularly valuable
when opened some time after.

But before she went to join her husband in the Belgic
capital, Mrs. Crawley made an expedition into England,
leaving behind her her little son upon the continent,
under the care of her French maid.

The parting between Rebecca and the little Rawdon did
not cause either party much pain. She had not, to say
truth, seen much of the young gentleman since his birth.
After the amiable fashion of French mothers, she had
placed him out at nurse in a village in the neighbourhood
of Paris, where little Rawdon passed the first months of
his life, not unhappily, with a numerous family of
foster-brothers in wooden shoes. His father would ride over
many a time to see him here, and the elder Rawdon's
paternal heart glowed to see him rosy and dirty,
shouting lustily, and happy in the making of mud-pies
under the superintendence of the gardener's wife, his
nurse.

Rebecca did not care much to go and see the son
and heir. Once he spoiled a new dove-coloured pelisse
of hers. He preferred his nurse's caresses to his mamma's,
and when finally he quitted that jolly nurse and almost
parent, he cried loudly for hours. He was only consoled
by his mother's promise that he should return to his nurse
the next day; indeed the nurse herself, who probably
would have been pained at the parting too, was told that
the child would immediately be restored to her, and for
some time awaited quite anxiously his return.

In fact, our friends may be said to have been among
the first of that brood of hardy English adventurers who
have subsequently invaded the Continent and swindled
in all the capitals of Europe. The respect in those happy
days of 1817-18 was very great for the wealth and
honour of Britons. They had not then learned, as I am
told, to haggle for bargains with the pertinacity which
now distinguishes them. The great cities of Europe had
not been as yet open to the enterprise of our rascals.
And whereas there is now hardly a town of France or
Italy in which you shall not see some noble countryman
of our own, with that happy swagger and insolence
of demeanour which we carry everywhere, swindling
inn-landlords, passing fictitious cheques upon credulous
bankers, robbing coach-makers of their carriages, goldsmiths
of their trinkets, easy travellers of their money at cards,
even public libraries of their books--thirty years ago you
needed but to be a Milor Anglais, travelling in a private
carriage, and credit was at your hand wherever you chose
to seek it, and gentlemen, instead of cheating, were
cheated. It was not for some weeks after the Crawleys'
departure that the landlord of the hotel which they
occupied during their residence at Paris found out the losses
which he had sustained: not until Madame Marabou, the
milliner, made repeated visits with her little bill for
articles supplied to Madame Crawley; not until Monsieur
Didelot from Boule d'Or in the Palais Royal had asked
half a dozen times whether cette charmante Miladi who
had bought watches and bracelets of him was de retour.
It is a fact that even the poor gardener's wife, who
had nursed madame's child, was never paid after the
first six months for that supply of the milk of human
kindness with which she had furnished the lusty and
healthy little Rawdon. No, not even the nurse was paid
--the Crawleys were in too great a hurry to remember
their trifling debt to her. As for the landlord of the hotel,
his curses against the English nation were violent for the
rest of his natural life. He asked all travellers whether
they knew a certain Colonel Lor Crawley--avec sa
femme une petite dame, tres spirituelle. "Ah,
Monsieur!" he would add--"ils m'ont affreusement vole." It
was melancholy to hear his accents as he spoke of that
catastrophe.

Rebecca's object in her journey to London was to
effect a kind of compromise with her husband's numerous
creditors, and by offering them a dividend of ninepence
or a shilling in the pound, to secure a return for him into
his own country. It does not become us to trace the steps
which she took in the conduct of this most difficult
negotiation; but, having shown them to their satisfaction
that the sum which she was empowered to offer was all
her husband's available capital, and having convinced
them that Colonel Crawley would prefer a perpetual
retirement on the Continent to a residence in this country
with his debts unsettled; having proved to them that there
was no possibility of money accruing to him from other
quarters, and no earthly chance of their getting a larger
dividend than that which she was empowered to offer,
she brought the Colonel's creditors unanimously to
accept her proposals, and purchased with fifteen hundred
pounds of ready money more than ten times that amount
of debts.

Mrs. Crawley employed no lawyer in the transaction.
The matter was so simple, to have or to leave, as she
justly observed, that she made the lawyers of the
creditors themselves do the business. And Mr. Lewis
representing Mr. Davids, of Red Lion Square, and Mr. Moss
acting for Mr. Manasseh of Cursitor Street (chief
creditors of the Colonel's), complimented his lady upon the
brilliant way in which she did business, and declared
that there was no professional man who could beat her.

Rebecca received their congratulations with perfect
modesty; ordered a bottle of sherry and a bread cake
to the little dingy lodgings where she dwelt, while
conducting the business, to treat the enemy's lawyers:
shook hands with them at parting, in excellent good
humour, and returned straightway to the Continent, to
rejoin her husband and son and acquaint the former
with the glad news of his entire liberation. As for the
latter, he had been considerably neglected during his
mother's absence by Mademoiselle Genevieve, her French
maid; for that young woman, contracting an attachment
for a soldier in the garrison of Calais, forgot her charge
in the society of this militaire, and little Rawdon very
narrowly escaped drowning on Calais sands at this
period, where the absent Genevieve had left and lost
him.

And so, Colonel and Mrs. Crawley came to London:
and it is at their house in Curzon Street, May Fair, that
they really showed the skill which must be possessed by
those who would live on the resources above named.

CHAPTER XXXVII

The Subject Continued

In the first place, and as a matter of the greatest
necessity, we are bound to describe how a house
may be got for nothing a year. These mansions
are to be had either unfurnished, where, if you
have credit with Messrs. Gillows or Bantings, you
can get them splendidly montees and decorated
entirely according to your own fancy; or they are
to be let furnished, a less troublesome and
complicated arrangement to most parties. It was so
that Crawley and his wife preferred to hire their house.

Before Mr. Bowls came to preside over Miss Crawley's
house and cellar in Park Lane, that lady had had
for a butler a Mr. Raggles, who was born on the family
estate of Queen's Crawley, and indeed was a younger
son of a gardener there. By good conduct, a handsome
person and calves, and a grave demeanour, Raggles rose
from the knife-board to the footboard of the carriage;
from the footboard to the butler's pantry. When he had
been a certain number of years at the head of Miss
Crawley's establishment, where he had had good wages,
fat perquisites, and plenty of opportunities of saving, he
announced that he was about to contract a matrimonial
alliance with a late cook of Miss Crawley's, who had
subsisted in an honourable manner by the exercise of a
mangle, and the keeping of a small greengrocer's shop in
the neighbourhood. The truth is, that the ceremony had
been clandestinely performed some years back; although
the news of Mr. Raggles' marriage was first brought to
Miss Crawley by a little boy and girl of seven and eight
years of age, whose continual presence in the kitchen
had attracted the attention of Miss Briggs.

Mr. Raggles then retired and personally undertook the
superintendence of the small shop and the greens. He
added milk and cream, eggs and country-fed pork to his
stores, contenting himself whilst other retired butlers
were vending spirits in public houses, by dealing in the
simplest country produce. And having a good connection
amongst the butlers in the neighbourhood, and a
snug back parlour where he and Mrs. Raggles received
them, his milk, cream, and eggs got to be adopted by
many of the fraternity, and his profits increased every
year. Year after year he quietly and modestly amassed
money, and when at length that snug and complete bachelor's residence at No. 201, Curzon Street, May Fair, lately
the residence of the Honourable Frederick Deuceace,
gone abroad, with its rich and appropriate furniture by
the first makers, was brought to the hammer, who should
go in and purchase the lease and furniture of the house
but Charles Raggles? A part of the money he borrowed, it
is true, and at rather a high interest, from a brother
butler, but the chief part he paid down, and it was with
no small pride that Mrs. Raggles found herself sleeping in
a bed of carved mahogany, with silk curtains, with a
prodigious cheval glass opposite to her, and a wardrobe
which would contain her, and Raggles, and all the family.

Of course, they did not intend to occupy permanently
an apartment so splendid. It was in order to let the house
again that Raggles purchased it. As soon as a tenant
was found, he subsided into the greengrocer's shop once
more; but a happy thing it was for him to walk out of
that tenement and into Curzon Street, and there survey
his house--his own house--with geraniums in the
window and a carved bronze knocker. The footman
occasionally lounging at the area railing, treated him with
respect; the cook took her green stuff at his house and
called him Mr. Landlord, and there was not one thing
the tenants did, or one dish which they had for dinner,
that Raggles might not know of, if he liked.

He was a good man; good and happy. The house
brought him in so handsome a yearly income that he was
determined to send his children to good schools, and
accordingly, regardless of expense, Charles was sent to
boarding at Dr. Swishtail's, Sugar-cane Lodge, and
little Matilda to Miss Peckover's, Laurentinum House,
Clapham.

Raggles loved and adored the Crawley family as the
author of all his prosperity in life. He had a silhouette of
his mistress in his back shop, and a drawing of the
Porter's Lodge at Queen's Crawley, done by that spinster
herself in India ink--and the only addition he made to
the decorations of the Curzon Street House was a print
of Queen's Crawley in Hampshire, the seat of Sir Walpole
Crawley, Baronet, who was represented in a gilded car
drawn by six white horses, and passing by a lake
covered with swans, and barges containing ladies in hoops,
and musicians with flags and penwigs. Indeed Raggles
thought there was no such palace in all the world, and
no such august family.

As luck would have it, Raggles' house in Curzon Street
was to let when Rawdon and his wife returned to London.
The Colonel knew it and its owner quite well; the latter's
connection with the Crawley family had been kept up
constantly, for Raggles helped Mr. Bowls whenever Miss
Crawley received friends. And the old man not only let
his house to the Colonel but officiated as his butler
whenever he had company; Mrs. Raggles operating in the
kitchen below and sending up dinners of which old Miss
Crawley herself might have approved. This was the way,
then, Crawley got his house for nothing; for though
Raggles had to pay taxes and rates, and the interest of the
mortgage to the brother butler; and the insurance of his
life; and the charges for his children at school; and the
value of the meat and drink which his own family--and
for a time that of Colonel Crawley too--consumed; and
though the poor wretch was utterly ruined by the
transaction, his children being flung on the streets, and himself
driven into the Fleet Prison: yet somebody must pay even
for gentlemen who live for nothing a year--and so it was
this unlucky Raggles was made the representative of
Colonel Crawley's defective capital.

I wonder how many families are driven to roguery and
to ruin by great practitioners in Crawlers way?--how
many great noblemen rob their petty tradesmen,
condescend to swindle their poor retainers out of wretched
little sums and cheat for a few shillings? When we read
that a noble nobleman has left for the Continent, or that
another noble nobleman has an execution in his house
--and that one or other owes six or seven millions, the
defeat seems glorious even, and we respect the victim in
the vastness of his ruin. But who pities a poor barber who
can't get his money for powdering the footmen's heads;
or a poor carpenter who has ruined himself by fixing up
ornaments and pavilions for my lady's dejeuner; or the
poor devil of a tailor whom the steward patronizes, and
who has pledged all he is worth, and more, to get the
liveries ready, which my lord has done him the honour
to bespeak? When the great house tumbles down, these
miserable wretches fall under it unnoticed: as they say in
the old legends, before a man goes to the devil himself,
he sends plenty of other souls thither.

Rawdon and his wife generously gave their patronage
to all such of Miss Crawley's tradesmen and purveyors
as chose to serve them. Some were willing,enough,
especially the poor ones. It was wonderful to see the
pertinacity with which the washerwoman from Tooting
brought the cart every Saturday, and her bills week after week.
Mr. Raggles himself had to supply the greengroceries. The
bill for servants' porter at the Fortune of War public
house is a curiosity in the chronicles of beer. Every
servant also was owed the greater part of his wages, and
thus kept up perforce an interest in the house. Nobody in
fact was paid. Not the blacksmith who opened the lock;
nor the glazier who mended the pane; nor the jobber who
let the carriage; nor the groom who drove it; nor the
butcher who provided the leg of mutton; nor the coals
which roasted it; nor the cook who basted it; nor the
servants who ate it: and this I am given to understand is not
unfrequently the way in which people live elegantly on
nothing a year.

In a little town such things cannot be done without
remark. We know there the quantity of milk our
neighbour takes and espy the joint or the fowls which are
going in for his dinner. So, probably, 200 and 202 in Curzon
Street might know what was going on in the house
between them, the servants communicating through the
area-railings; but Crawley and his wife and his friends
did not know 200 and 202. When you came to 201 there
was a hearty welcome, a kind smile, a good dinner, and
a jolly shake of the hand from the host and hostess there,
just for all the world as if they had been undisputed
masters of three or four thousand a year--and so they were,
not in money, but in produce and labour--if they did
not pay for the mutton, they had it: if they did not give
bullion in exchange for their wine, how should we know?
Never was better claret at any man's table than at honest
Rawdon's; dinners more gay and neatly served.  His
drawing-rooms were the prettiest, little, modest salons
conceivable: they were decorated with the greatest taste,
and a thousand knick-knacks from Paris, by Rebecca:
and when she sat at her piano trilling songs with a
lightsome heart, the stranger voted himself in a little
paradise of domestic comfort and agreed that, if the
husband was rather stupid, the wife was charming, and the
dinners the pleasantest in the world.

Rebecca's wit, cleverness, and flippancy made her speedily
the vogue in London among a certain class. You saw
demure chariots at her door, out of which stepped very
great people. You beheld her carriage in the park,
surrounded by dandies of note. The little box in the third
tier of the opera was crowded with heads constantly
changing; but it must be confessed that the ladies held
aloof from her, and that their doors were shut to our
little adventurer.

With regard to the world of female fashion and its
customs, the present writer of course can only speak at
second hand. A man can no more penetrate or under-
stand those mysteries than he can know what the ladies
talk about when they go upstairs after dinner. It is only
by inquiry and perseverance that one sometimes gets
hints of those secrets; and by a similar diligence every
person who treads the Pall Mall pavement and frequents
the clubs of this metropolis knows, either through his
own experience or through some acquaintance with whom
he plays at billiards or shares the joint, something about
the genteel world of London, and how, as there are men
(such as Rawdon Crawley, whose position we mentioned
before) who cut a good figure to the eyes of the ignorant
world and to the apprentices in the park, who behold
them consorting with the most notorious dandies there,
so there are ladies, who may be called men's women,
being welcomed entirely by all the gentlemen and cut
or slighted by all their wives. Mrs. Firebrace is of this sort;
the lady with the beautiful fair ringlets whom you see
every day in Hyde Park, surrounded by the greatest and
most famous dandies of this empire. Mrs. Rockwood is
another, whose parties are announced laboriously in the
fashionable newspapers and with whom you see that all
sorts of ambassadors and great noblemen dine; and
many more might be mentioned had they to do with the
history at present in hand. But while simple folks who
are out of the world, or country people with a taste for
the genteel, behold these ladies in their seeming glory in
public places, or envy them from afar off, persons who
are better instructed could inform them that these envied
ladies have no more chance of establishing themselves
in "society," than the benighted squire's wife in
Somersetshire who reads of their doings in the Morning Post.
Men living about London are aware of these awful truths.
You hear how pitilessly many ladies of seeming rank and
wealth are excluded from this "society." The frantic
efforts which they make to enter this circle, the meannesses
to which they submit, the insults which they undergo,
are matters of wonder to those who take human or
womankind for a study; and the pursuit of fashion under
difficulties would be a fine theme for any very great
person who had the wit, the leisure, and the knowledge of
the English language necessary for the compiling of
such a history.

Now the few female acquaintances whom Mrs. Crawley
had known abroad not only declined to visit her when
she came to this side of the Channel, but cut her severely
when they met in public places. It was curious to see how
the great ladies forgot her, and no doubt not altogether
a pleasant study to Rebecca. When Lady Bareacres met
her in the waiting-room at the opera, she gathered her
daughters about her as if they would be contaminated
by a touch of Becky, and retreating a step or two, placed
herself in front of them, and stared at her little enemy.
To stare Becky out of countenance required a severer
glance than even the frigid old Bareacres could shoot out
of her dismal eyes. When Lady de la Mole, who had ridden
a score of times by Becky's side at Brussels, met Mrs.
Crawley's open carriage in Hyde Park, her Ladyship was
quite blind, and could not in the least recognize her
former friend. Even Mrs. Blenkinsop, the banker's wife,
cut her at church. Becky went regularly to church now; it
was edifying to see her enter there with Rawdon by her
side, carrying a couple of large gilt prayer-books, and
afterwards going through the ceremony with the gravest
resignation.

Rawdon at first felt very acutely the slights which were
passed upon his wife, and was inclined to be gloomy and
savage. He talked of calling out the husbands or brothers
of every one of the insolent women who did not pay a
proper respect to his wife; and it was only by the strongest commands and entreaties on her part that he was
brought into keeping a decent behaviour. "You can't
shoot me into society," she said good-naturedly. "Remember,
my dear, that I was but a governess, and you, you
poor silly old man, have the worst reputation for debt, and
dice, and all sorts of wickedness. We shall get quite as
many friends as we want by and by, and in the meanwhile
you must be a good boy and obey your schoolmistress in
everything she tells you to do. When we heard that your
aunt had left almost everything to Pitt and his wife, do
you remember what a rage you were in? You would
have told all Paris, if I had not made you keep your
temper, and where would you have been now?--in
prison at Ste. Pelagie for debt, and not established in
London in a handsome house, with every comfort about
you--you were in such a fury you were ready to murder
your brother, you wicked Cain you, and what good
would have come of remaining angry? All the rage in the
world won't get us your aunt's money; and it is much
better that we should be friends with your brother's
family than enemies, as those foolish Butes are. When
your father dies, Queen's Crawley will be a pleasant house
for you and me to pass the winter in. If we are ruined,
you can carve and take charge of the stable, and I can
be a governess to Lady Jane's children. Ruined!
fiddlede-dee! I will get you a good place before that; or Pitt
and his little boy will die, and we will be Sir Rawdon and my
lady. While there is life, there is hope, my dear, and I
intend to make a man of you yet. Who sold your horses for
you? Who paid your debts for you?" Rawdon was obliged
to confess that he owed all these benefits to his wife, and
to trust himself to her guidance for the future.

Indeed, when Miss Crawley quitted the world, and that
money for which all her relatives had been fighting so
eagerly was finally left to Pitt, Bute Crawley, who found
that only five thousand pounds had been left to him
instead of the twenty upon which he calculated, was in
such a fury at his disappointment that he vented it in
savage abuse upon his nephew; and the quarrel always
rankling between them ended in an utter breach of
intercourse. Rawdon Crawley's conduct, on the other hand,
who got but a hundred pounds, was such as to astonish
his brother and delight his sister-in-law, who was
disposed to look kindly upon all the members of her
husband's family. He wrote to his brother a very frank, manly,
good-humoured letter from Paris. He was aware, he said,
that by his own marriage he had forfeited his aunt's
favour; and though he did not disguise his disappointment
that she should have been so entirely relentless towards
him, he was glad that the money was still kept in their
branch of the family, and heartily congratulated his brother
on his good fortune. He sent his affectionate remembrances
to his sister, and hoped to have her good-will for
Mrs. Rawdon; and the letter concluded with a postscript
to Pitt in the latter lady's own handwriting. She, too,
begged to join in her husband's congratulations. She should
ever remember Mr. Crawley's kindness to her in early
days when she was a friendless orphan, the instructress of
his little sisters, in whose welfare she still took the
tenderest interest. She wished him every happiness in his
married life, and, asking his permission to offer her
remembrances to Lady Jane (of whose goodness all the
world informed her), she hoped that one day she might
be allowed to present her little boy to his uncle and aunt,
and begged to bespeak for him their good-will and
protection.

Pitt Crawley received this communication very
graciously--more graciously than Miss Crawley had received
some of Rebecca's previous compositions in Rawdon's
handwriting; and as for Lady Jane, she was so charmed
with the letter that she expected her husband would
instantly divide his aunt's legacy into two equal portions
and send off one-half to his brother at Paris.

To her Ladyship's surprise, however, Pitt declined to
accommodate his brother with a cheque for thirty
thousand pounds. But he made Rawdon a handsome offer
of his hand whenever the latter should come to England
and choose to take it; and, thanking Mrs. Crawley for
her good opinion of himself and Lady Jane, he graciously
pronounced his willingness to take any opportunity to
serve her little boy.

Thus an almost reconciliation was brought about
between the brothers. When Rebecca came to town Pitt
and his wife were not in London. Many a time she drove
by the old door in Park Lane to see whether they had
taken possession of Miss Crawley's house there. But the
new family did not make its appearance; it was only
through Raggles that she heard of their movements--how
Miss Crawley's domestics had been dismissed with decent
gratuities, and how Mr. Pitt had only once made his
appearance in London, when he stopped for a few days
at the house, did business with his lawyers there, and sold
off all Miss Crawley's French novels to a bookseller out
of Bond Street. Becky had reasons of her own which
caused her to long for the arrival of her new relation.
"When Lady Jane comes," thought she, "she shall be my
sponsor in London society; and as for the women! bah!
the women will ask me when they find the men want to
see me."

An article as necessary to a lady in this position as her
brougham or her bouquet is her companion. I have
always admired the way in which the tender creatures, who
cannot exist without sympathy, hire an exceedingly plain
friend of their own sex from whom they are almost
inseparable. The sight of that inevitable woman in her
faded gown seated behind her dear friend in the opera-
box, or occupying the back seat of the barouche, is
always a wholesome and moral one to me, as jolly a
reminder as that of the Death's-head which figured in
the repasts of Egyptian bon-vivants, a strange sardonic
memorial of Vanity Fair. What? even battered, brazen,
beautiful, conscienceless, heartless, Mrs. Firebrace, whose
father died of her shame: even lovely, daring Mrs.
Mantrap, who will ride at any fence which any man in
England will take, and who drives her greys in the
park, while her mother keeps a huckster's stall in Bath
still--even those who are so bold, one might fancy
they could face anything dare not face the world without
a female friend. They must have somebody to cling to, the
affectionate creatures! And you will hardly see them in
any public place without a shabby companion in a dyed
silk, sitting somewhere in the shade close behind them.

"Rawdon," said Becky, very late one night, as a party
of gentlemen were seated round her crackling drawing-
room fire (for the men came to her house to finish the
night; and she had ice and coffee for them, the best in
London): "I must have a sheep-dog."

"A what?" said Rawdon, looking up from an ecarte
table.

"A sheep-dog!" said young Lord Southdown. "My dear
Mrs. Crawley, what a fancy! Why not have a Danish
dog? I know of one as big as a camel-leopard, by Jove.
It would almost pull your brougham. Or a Persian
greyhound, eh? (I propose, if you please); or a little pug
that would go into one of Lord Steyne's snuff-boxes?
There's a man at Bayswater got one with such a nose that
you might--I mark the king and play--that you might
hang your hat on it."

"I mark the trick," Rawdon gravely said. He attended
to his game commonly and didn't much meddle with
the conversation, except when it was about horses and
betting.

"What CAN you want with a shepherd's dog?" the lively
little Southdown continued.

"I mean a MORAL shepherd's dog," said Becky, laughing
and looking up at Lord Steyne.

"What the devil's that?" said his Lordship.

"A dog to keep the wolves off me," Rebecca continued.
"A companion."

"Dear little innocent lamb, you want one," said the
marquis; and his jaw thrust out, and he began to grin
hideously, his little eyes leering towards Rebecca.

The great Lord of Steyne was standing by the fire
sipping coffee. The fire crackled and blazed pleasantly
There was a score of candles sparkling round the mantel
piece, in all sorts of quaint sconces, of gilt and bronze and
porcelain. They lighted up Rebecca's figure to admiration,
as she sat on a sofa covered with a pattern of gaudy
flowers. She was in a pink dress that looked as fresh as
a rose; her dazzling white arms and shoulders were half-
covered with a thin hazy scarf through which they
sparkled; her hair hung in curls round her neck; one of her
little feet peeped out from the fresh crisp folds of the
silk: the prettiest little foot in the prettiest little sandal
in the finest silk stocking in the world.

The candles lighted up Lord Steyne's shining bald head,
which was fringed with red hair. He had thick bushy
eyebrows, with little twinkling bloodshot eyes, surrounded
by a thousand wrinkles. His jaw was underhung, and
when he laughed, two white buck-teeth protruded
themselves and glistened savagely in the midst of the grin.
He had been dining with royal personages, and wore
his garter and ribbon. A short man was his Lordship,
broad-chested and bow-legged, but proud of the fineness
of his foot and ankle, and always caressing his garter-
knee.

"And so the shepherd is not enough," said he, "to
defend his lambkin?"

"The shepherd is too fond of playing at cards and going
to his clubs," answered Becky, laughing.

" 'Gad, what a debauched Corydon!" said my lord--
"what a mouth for a pipe!"

"I take your three to two," here said Rawdon, at the
card-table.

"Hark at Meliboeus," snarled the noble marquis; "he's
pastorally occupied too: he's shearing a Southdown.
What an innocent mutton, hey? Damme, what a snowy
fleece!"

Rebecca's eyes shot out gleams of scornful humour.
"My lord," she said, "you are a knight of the Order."
He had the collar round his neck, indeed--a gift of the
restored princes of Spain.

Lord Steyne in early life had been notorious for his
daring and his success at play. He had sat up two days
and two nights with Mr. Fox at hazard. He had won
money of the most august personages of the realm: he
had won his marquisate, it was said, at the gaming-
table; but he did not like an allusion to those bygone
fredaines. Rebecca saw the scowl gathering over his heavy
brow.

She rose up from her sofa and went and took his coffee
cup out of his hand with a little curtsey. "Yes," she said,
"I must get a watchdog. But he won't bark at YOU.
And, going into the other drawing-room, she sat down to
the piano and began to sing little French songs in such a
charming, thrilling voice that the mollified nobleman
speedily followed her into that chamber, and might be seen
nodding his head and bowing time over her.

Rawdon and his friend meanwhile played ecarte until
they had enough. The Colonel won; but, say that he won
ever so much and often, nights like these, which occurred
many times in the week--his wife having all the talk and
all the admiration, and he sitting silent without the circle,
not comprehending a word of the jokes, the allusions, the
mystical language within--must have been rather
wearisome to the ex-dragoon.

"How is Mrs. Crawley's husband?" Lord Steyne used
to say to him by way of a good day when they met; and
indeed that was now his avocation in life. He was
Colonel Crawley no more. He was Mrs. Crawley's husband.

About the little Rawdon, if nothing has been said all
this while, it is because he is hidden upstairs in a garret
somewhere, or has crawled below into the kitchen for
companionship. His mother scarcely ever took notice of
him. He passed the days with his French bonne as long
as that domestic remained in Mr. Crawley's family, and
when the Frenchwoman went away, the little fellow,
howling in the loneliness of the night, had compassion taken
on him by a housemaid, who took him out of his solitary
nursery into her bed in the garret hard by and comforted
him.

Rebecca, my Lord Steyne, and one or two more were
in the drawing-room taking tea after the opera, when this
shouting was heard overhead. "It's my cherub crying for
his nurse," she said. She did not offer to move to go and
see the child. "Don't agitate your feelings by going to look
for him," said Lord Steyne sardonically. "Bah!" replied
the other, with a sort of blush, "he'll cry himself to sleep";
and they fell to talking about the opera.

Rawdon had stolen off though, to look after his son
and heir; and came back to the company when he found
that honest Dolly was consoling the child. The Colonel's
dressing-room was in those upper regions. He used to see
the boy there in private. They had interviews together
every morning when he shaved; Rawdon minor sitting on a
box by his father's side and watching the operation with
never-ceasing pleasure. He and the sire were great friends.
The father would bring him sweetmeats from the dessert
and hide them in a certain old epaulet box, where the
child went to seek them, and laughed with joy on
discovering the treasure; laughed, but not too loud: for mamma
was below asleep and must not be disturbed. She did not
go to rest till very late and seldom rose till after noon.

Rawdon bought the boy plenty of picture-books and
crammed his nursery with toys. Its walls were covered with
pictures pasted up by the father's own hand and purchased
by him for ready money. When he was off duty with
Mrs. Rawdon in the park, he would sit up here, passing
hours with the boy; who rode on his chest, who pulled his
great mustachios as if they were driving-reins, and spent
days with him in indefatigable gambols. The room was
a low room, and once, when the child was not five years
old, his father, who was tossing him wildly up in his
arms, hit the poor little chap's skull so violently against
the ceiling that he almost dropped the child, so terrified
was he at the disaster.

Rawdon minor had made up his face for a tremendous
howl--the severity of the blow indeed authorized that
indulgence; but just as he was going to begin, the father
interposed.

"For God's sake, Rawdy, don't wake Mamma," he
cried. And the child, looking in a very hard and piteous
way at his father, bit his lips, clenched his hands, and
didn't cry a bit. Rawdon told that story at the clubs, at
the mess, to everybody in town. "By Gad, sir," he
explained to the public in general, "what a good plucked one
that boy of mine is--what a trump he is! I half-sent his
head through the ceiling, by Gad, and he wouldn't cry for
fear of disturbing his mother."

Sometimes--once or twice in a week--that lady visited
the upper regions in which the child lived. She came like
a vivified figure out of the Magasin des Modes--blandly
smiling in the most beautiful new clothes and little gloves
and boots. Wonderful scarfs, laces, and jewels glittered
about her. She had always a new bonnet on, and flowers
bloomed perpetually in it, or else magnificent curling
ostrich feathers, soft and snowy as camellias. She nodded
twice or thrice patronizingly to the little boy, who looked
up from his dinner or from the pictures of soldiers he was
painting. When she left the room, an odour of rose, or
some other magical fragrance, lingered about the nursery.
She was an unearthly being in his eyes, superior to his
father--to all the world: to be worshipped and admired
at a distance. To drive with that lady in the carriage was
an awful rite: he sat up in the back seat and did not dare
to speak: he gazed with all his eyes at the beautifully
dressed Princess opposite to him. Gentlemen on splendid
prancing horses came up and smiled and talked with her.
How her eyes beamed upon all of them! Her hand used
to quiver and wave gracefully as they passed. When
he went out with her he had his new red dress on. His old
brown holland was good enough when he stayed at home.
Sometimes, when she was away, and Dolly his maid was
making his bed, he came into his mother's room. It was as
the abode of a fairy to him--a mystic chamber of
splendour and delights. There in the wardrobe hung those
wonderful robes--pink and blue and many-tinted. There
was the jewel-case, silver-clasped, and the wondrous
bronze hand on the dressing-table, glistening all over
with a hundred rings. There was the cheval-glass, that
miracle of art, in which he could just see his own
wondering head and the reflection of Dolly (queerly
distorted, and as if up in the ceiling), plumping and patting
the pillows of the bed. Oh, thou poor lonely little
benighted boy! Mother is the name for God in the lips and
hearts of little children; and here was one who was
worshipping a stone!

Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the Colonel was, had
certain manly tendencies of affection in his heart and
could love a child and a woman still. For Rawdon minor
he had a great secret tenderness then, which did not
escape Rebecca, though she did not talk about it to her
husband. It did not annoy her: she was too good-
natured. It only increased her scorn for him. He felt
somehow ashamed of this paternal softness and hid it
from his wife--only indulging in it when alone with the
boy.

He used to take him out of mornings when they would
go to the stables together and to the park. Little Lord
Southdown, the best-natured of men, who would make
you a present of the hat from his head, and whose main
occupation in life was to buy knick-knacks that he might
give them away afterwards, bought the little chap a
pony not much bigger than a large rat, the donor said,
and on this little black Shetland pygmy young Rawdon's
great father was pleased to mount the boy, and to walk
by his side in the park. It pleased him to see his old
quarters, and his old fellow-guardsmen at Knightsbridge:
he had begun to think of his bachelorhood with
something like regret. The old troopers were glad to recognize
their ancient officer and dandle the little colonel.
Colonel Crawley found dining at mess and with his
brother-officers very pleasant. "Hang it, I ain't clever
enough for her--I know it. She won't miss me," he used to
say: and he was right, his wife did not miss him.

Rebecca was fond of her husband. She was always
perfectly good-humoured and kind to him. She did not
even show her scorn much for him; perhaps she liked
him the better for being a fool. He was her upper servant
and maitre d'hotel. He went on her errands; obeyed
her orders without question; drove in the carriage in the
ring with her without repining; took her to the opera-box,
solaced himself at his club during the performance, and
came punctually back to fetch her when due. He would
have liked her to be a little fonder of the boy, but even
to that he reconciled himself. "Hang it, you know she's so
clever," he said, "and I'm not literary and that, you
know." For, as we have said before, it requires no great
wisdom to be able to win at cards and billiards, and
Rawdon made no pretensions to any other sort of skill.

When the companion came, his domestic duties became
very light. His wife encouraged him to dine
abroad: she would let him off duty at the opera. "Don't
stay and stupefy yourself at home to-night, my dear,"
she would say. "Some men are coming who will only bore
you. I would not ask them, but you know it's for your
good, and now I have a sheep-dog, I need not be afraid
to be alone."

"A sheep-dog--a companion! Becky Sharp with a
companion! Isn't it good fun?" thought Mrs. Crawley to
herself. The notion tickled hugely her sense of humour.

One Sunday morning, as Rawdon Crawley, his little
son, and the pony were taking their accustomed walk in
the park, they passed by an old acquaintance of the
Colonel's, Corporal Clink, of the regiment, who was in
conversation with a friend, an old gentleman, who held
a boy in his arms about the age of little Rawdon. This
other youngster had seized hold of the Waterloo medal
which the Corporal wore, and was examining it with
delight.

"Good morning, your Honour," said Clink, in reply to
the "How do, Clink?" of the Colonel. "This ere young
gentleman is about the little Colonel's age, sir,"
continued the corporal.

"His father was a Waterloo man, too," said the old
gentleman, who carried the boy. "Wasn't he, Georgy?"

"Yes," said Georgy. He and the little chap on the pony
were looking at each other with all their might--solemnly
scanning each other as children do.

"In a line regiment," Clink said with a patronizing air.

"He was a Captain in the --th regiment," said the old
gentleman rather pompously. "Captain George Osborne,
sir--perhaps you knew him. He died the death of a
hero, sir, fighting against the Corsican tyrant."
Colonel Crawley blushed quite red. "I knew him very
well, sir," he said, "and his wife, his dear little wife,
sir--how is she?"

"She is my daughter, sir," said the old gentleman,
putting down the boy and taking out a card with great
solemnity, which he handed to the Colonel. On it
written--

"Mr. Sedley, Sole Agent for the Black Diamond and
Anti-Cinder Coal Association, Bunker's Wharf, Thames
Street, and Anna-Maria Cottages, Fulham Road West."

Little Georgy went up and looked at the Shetland
pony.

"Should you like to have a ride?" said Rawdon minor
from the saddle.

"Yes," said Georgy. The Colonel, who had been
looking at him with some interest, took up the child
and put him on the pony behind Rawdon minor.

"Take hold of him, Georgy," he said--"take my little
boy round the waist--his name is Rawdon." And both the
children began to laugh.

"You won't see a prettier pair I think, THIS summer's
day, sir," said the good-natured Corporal; and the
Colonel, the Corporal, and old Mr. Sedley with his umbrella,
walked by the side of the children.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A Family in a Very Small Way

We must suppose little George Osborne has ridden from
Knightsbridge towards Fulham, and will stop and make
inquiries at that village regarding some friends whom we
have left there. How is Mrs. Amelia after the storm of
Waterloo? Is she living and thriving? What has come of
Major Dobbin, whose cab was always hankering about
her premises? And is there any news of the Collector
of Boggley Wollah? The facts concerning the latter are
briefly these:

Our worthy fat friend Joseph Sedley returned to India
not long after his escape from Brussels. Either his
furlough was up, or he dreaded to meet any witnesses of his
Waterloo flight. However it might be, he went back to his
duties in Bengal very soon after Napoleon had taken
up his residence at St. Helena, where Jos saw the ex-
Emperor. To hear Mr. Sedley talk on board ship you
would have supposed that it was not the first time he and
the Corsican had met, and that the civilian had bearded
the French General at Mount St. John. He had a
thousand anecdotes about the famous battles; he knew the
position of every regiment and the loss which each
had incurred. He did not deny that he had been
concerned in those victories--that he had been with the
army and carried despatches for the Duke of Wellington.
And he described what the Duke did and said on
every conceivable moment of the day of Waterloo, with
such an accurate knowledge of his Grace's sentiments
and proceedings that it was clear he must have been by
the conqueror's side throughout the day; though, as a
non-combatant, his name was not mentioned in the
public documents relative to the battle. Perhaps he actually
worked himself up to believe that he had been engaged
with the army; certain it is that he made a prodigious
sensation for some time at Calcutta, and was called
Waterloo Sedley during the whole of his subsequent stay in
Bengal.

The bills which Jos had given for the purchase of those
unlucky horses were paid without question by him and
his agents. He never was heard to allude to the bargain,
and nobody knows for a certainty what became
of the horses, or how he got rid of them, or of Isidor, his
Belgian servant, who sold a grey horse, very like the one
which Jos rode, at Valenciennes sometime during the
autumn of 1815.

Jos's London agents had orders to pay one hundred
and twenty pounds yearly to his parents at Fulham. It
was the chief support of the old couple; for Mr. Sedley's
speculations in life subsequent to his bankruptcy did not
by any means retrieve the broken old gentleman's
fortune. He tried to be a wine-merchant, a coal-merchant,
a commission lottery agent, &c., &c. He sent round
prospectuses to his friends whenever he took a new trade,
and ordered a new brass plate for the door, and talked
pompously about making his fortune still. But Fortune
never came back to the feeble and stricken old man. One
by one his friends dropped off, and were weary of
buying dear coals and bad wine from him; and there
was only his wife in all the world who fancied, when he
tottered off to the City of a morning, that he was still
doing any business there. At evening he crawled slowly
back; and he used to go of nights to a little club at a
tavern, where he disposed of the finances of the nation.
It was wonderful to hear him talk about millions, and
agios, and discounts, and what Rothschild was
doing, and Baring Brothers. He talked of such vast sums
that the gentlemen of the club (the apothecary, the
undertaker, the great carpenter and builder, the parish clerk,
who was allowed to come stealthily, and Mr. Clapp, our
old acquaintance,) respected the old gentleman. "I was
better off once, sir," he did not fail to tell everybody who
"used the room." "My son, sir, is at this minute chief
magistrate of Ramgunge in the Presidency of Bengal, and
touching his four thousand rupees per mensem. My
daughter might be a Colonel's lady if she liked. I might
draw upon my son, the first magistrate, sir, for two
thousand pounds to-morrow, and Alexander would cash my
bill, down sir, down on the counter, sir. But the Sedleys
were always a proud family." You and I, my dear
reader, may drop into this condition one day: for have
not many of our friends attained it? Our luck may fail:
our powers forsake us: our place on the boards be taken
by better and younger mimes--the chance of life roll
away and leave us shattered and stranded. Then men
will walk across the road when they meet you--or, worse
still, hold you out a couple of fingers and patronize you
in a pitying way--then you will know, as soon as your
back is turned, that your friend begins with a "Poor
devil, what imprudences he has committed, what chances
that chap has thrown away!" Well, well--a carriage and
three thousand a year is not the summit of the reward
nor the end of God's judgment of men. If quacks prosper
as often as they go to the wall--if zanies succeed and
knaves arrive at fortune, and, vice versa, sharing ill
luck and prosperity for all the world like the ablest and
most honest amongst us--I say, brother, the gifts and
pleasures of Vanity Fair cannot be held of any great
account, and that it is probable . . . but we are
wandering out of the domain of the story.

Had Mrs. Sedley been a woman of energy, she would
have exerted it after her husband's ruin and, occupying
a large house, would have taken in boarders. The broken
Sedley would have acted well as the boarding-house
landlady's husband; the Munoz of private life; the titular lord
and master: the carver, house-steward, and humble
husband of the occupier of the dingy throne. I have seen
men of good brains and breeding, and of good hopes and
vigour once, who feasted squires and kept hunters in
their youth, meekly cutting up legs of mutton for
rancorous old harridans and pretending to preside over their
dreary tables--but Mrs. Sedley, we say, had not spirit
enough to bustle about for "a few select inmates to join
a cheerful musical family," such as one reads of in the
Times. She was content to lie on the shore where
fortune had stranded her--and you could see that the
career of this old couple was over.

I don't think they were unhappy. Perhaps they were
a little prouder in their downfall than in their prosperity.
Mrs. Sedley was always a great person for her landlady,
Mrs. Clapp, when she descended and passed many hours
with her in the basement or ornamented kitchen. The
Irish maid Betty Flanagan's bonnets and ribbons, her
sauciness, her idleness, her reckless prodigality of kitchen
candles, her consumption of tea and sugar, and so forth
occupied and amused the old lady almost as much as the
doings of her former household, when she had Sambo and
the coachman, and a groom, and a footboy, and a
housekeeper with a regiment of female domestics--her former
household, about which the good lady talked a hundred
times a day. And besides Betty Flanagan, Mrs. Sedley
had all the maids-of-all-work in the street to superintend.
She knew how each tenant of the cottages paid or
owed his little rent. She stepped aside when Mrs.
Rougemont the actress passed with her dubious family. She
flung up her head when Mrs. Pestler, the apothecary's
lady, drove by in her husband's professional one-horse
chaise. She had colloquies with the greengrocer about
the pennorth of turnips which Mr. Sedley loved; she kept
an eye upon the milkman and the baker's boy; and
made visitations to the butcher, who sold hundreds of
oxen very likely with less ado than was made about
Mrs. Sedley's loin of mutton: and she counted the
potatoes under the joint on Sundays, on which days, dressed
in her best, she went to church twice and read Blair's
Sermons in the evening.

On that day, for "business" prevented him on weekdays
from taking such a pleasure, it was old Sedley's
delight to take out his little grandson Georgy to the
neighbouring parks or Kensington Gardens, to see the soldiers
or to feed the ducks. Georgy loved the redcoats, and his
grandpapa told him how his father had been a famous
soldier, and introduced him to many sergeants and others
with Waterloo medals on their breasts, to whom the
old grandfather pompously presented the child as the
son of Captain Osborne of the --th, who died gloriously
on the glorious eighteenth. He has been known to treat
some of these non-commissioned gentlemen to a glass of
porter, and, indeed, in their first Sunday walks was
disposed to spoil little Georgy, sadly gorging the boy with
apples and parliament, to the detriment of his health--
until Amelia declared that George should never go out
with his grandpapa unless the latter promised solemnly,
and on his honour, not to give the child any cakes,
lollipops, or stall produce whatever.

Between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter there was a sort
of coolness about this boy, and a secret jealousy--for
one evening in George's very early days, Amelia, who
had been seated at work in their little parlour scarcely
remarking that the old lady had quitted the room, ran
upstairs instinctively to the nursery at the cries of the
child, who had been asleep until that moment--and
there found Mrs. Sedley in the act of surreptitiously
administering Daffy's Elixir to the infant. Amelia, the
gentlest and sweetest of everyday mortals, when she
found this meddling with her maternal authority, thrilled
and trembled all over with anger. Her cheeks, ordinarily
pale, now flushed up, until they were as red as they used
to be when she was a child of twelve years old. She
seized the baby out of her mother's arms and then
grasped at the bottle, leaving the old lady gaping at her,
furious, and holding the guilty tea-spoon.

Amelia flung the bottle crashing into the fire-place.
"I will NOT have baby poisoned, Mamma," cried Emmy,
rocking the infant about violently with both her arms
round him and turning with flashing eyes at her mother.

"Poisoned, Amelia!" said the old lady; "this language
to me?"

"He shall not have any medicine but that which Mr.
Pestler sends for hi n. He told me that Daffy's Elixir was
poison."

"Very good: you think I'm a murderess then," replied
Mrs. Sedley. "This is the language you use to your mother.
I have met with misfortunes: I have sunk low in life: I
have kept my carriage, and now walk on foot: but I did
not know I was a murderess before, and thank you for the
NEWS."

"Mamma," said the poor girl, who was always ready for
tears--"you shouldn't be hard upon me. I--I didn't mean
--I mean, I did not wish to say you would to any
wrong to this dear child, only--"

"Oh, no, my love,--only that I was a murderess; in
which case I had better go to the Old Bailey. Though I
didn't poison YOU, when you were a child, but gave you
the best of education and the most expensive masters
money could procure. Yes; I've nursed five children and
buried three; and the one I loved the best of all, and
tended through croup, and teething, and measles, and
hooping-cough, and brought up with foreign masters,
regardless of expense, and with accomplishments at Minerva
House--which I never had when I was a girl--when I was
too glad to honour my father and mother, that I might
live long in the land, and to be useful, and not to mope
all day in my room and act the fine lady--says I'm a
murderess. Ah, Mrs. Osborne! may YOU never nourish a
viper in your bosom, that's MY prayer."

"Mamma, Mamma!" cried the bewildered girl; and the
child in her arms set up a frantic chorus of shouts.
"A murderess, indeed! Go down on your knees and
pray to God to cleanse your wicked ungrateful heart,
Amelia, and may He forgive you as I do." And Mrs.
Sedley tossed out of the room, hissing out the word
poison once more, and so ending her charitable
benediction.

Till the termination of her natural life, this breach
between Mrs. Sedley and her daughter was never thoroughly mended. The quarrel gave the elder lady numberless
advantages which she did not fail to turn to account with
female ingenuity and perseverance. For instance, she
scarcely spoke to Amelia for many weeks afterwards.
She warned the domestics not to touch the child, as Mrs.
Osborne might be offended. She asked her daughter to
see and satisfy herself that there was no poison prepared
in the little daily messes that were concocted for Georgy.
When neighbours asked after the boy's health, she
referred them pointedly to Mrs. Osborne. SHE never
ventured to ask whether the baby was well or not. SHE
would not touch the child although he was her grandson,
and own precious darling, for she was not USED to
children, and might kill it. And whenever Mr. Pestler came
upon his healing inquisition, she received the doctor with
such a sarcastic and scornful demeanour, as made the
surgeon declare that not Lady Thistlewood herself, whom
he had the honour of attending professionally, could
give herself greater airs than old Mrs. Sedley, from whom
he never took a fee. And very likely Emmy was jealous
too, upon her own part, as what mother is not, of those
who would manage her children for her, or become
candidates for the first place in their affections. It is certain
that when anybody nursed the child, she was uneasy, and
that she would no more allow Mrs. Clapp or the
domestic to dress or tend him than she would have let them
wash her husband's miniature which hung up over her
little bed--the same little bed from which the poor girl
had gone to his; and to which she retired now for many
long, silent, tearful, but happy years.

In this room was all Amelia's heart and treasure. Here
it was that she tended her boy and watched him through
the many ills of childhood, with a constant passion of
love. The elder George returned in him somehow, only
improved, and as if come back from heaven. In a
hundred little tones, looks, and movements, the child was
so like his father that the widow's heart thrilled as she
held him to it; and he would often ask the cause of her
tears. It was because of his likeness to his father, she
did not scruple to tell him. She talked constantly to him
about this dead father, and spoke of her love for George
to the innocent and wondering child; much more than she
ever had done to George himself, or to any confidante of
her youth. To her parents she never talked about this
matter, shrinking from baring her heart to them. Little
George very likely could understand no better than they,
but into his ears she poured her sentimental secrets
unreservedly, and into his only. The very joy of this
woman was a sort of grief, or so tender, at least, that
its expression was tears. Her sensibilities were so weak
and tremulous that perhaps they ought not to be talked
about in a book. I was told by Dr. Pestler (now a most
flourishing lady's physician, with a sumptuous dark green
carriage, a prospect of speedy knighthood, and a house
in Manchester Square) that her grief at weaning the child
was a sight that would have unmanned a Herod. He was
very soft-hearted many years ago, and his wife was
mortally jealous of Mrs. Amelia, then and long afterwards.

Perhaps the doctor's lady had good reason for her
jealousy: most women shared it, of those who formed the
small circle of Amelia's acquaintance, and were quite
angry at the enthusiasm with which the other sex regarded
her. For almost all men who came near her loved
her; though no doubt they would be at a loss to tell you
why. She was not brilliant, nor witty, nor wise over
much, nor extraordinarily handsome. But wherever she
went she touched and charmed every one of the male
sex, as invariably as she awakened the scorn and
incredulity of her own sisterhood. I think it was her
weakness which was her principal charm--a kind of sweet
submission and softness, which seemed to appeal to
each man she met for his sympathy and protection. We
have seen how in the regiment, though she spoke but to
few of George's comrades there, all the swords of the
young fellows at the mess-table would have leapt from
their scabbards to fight round her; and so it was in
the little narrow lodging-house and circle at Fulham, she
interested and pleased everybody. If she had been Mrs.
Mango herself, of the great house of Mango, Plantain,
and Co., Crutched Friars, and the magnificent proprietress
of the Pineries, Fulham, who gave summer dejeuners
frequented by Dukes and Earls, and drove about
the parish with magnificent yellow liveries and bay horses,
such as the royal stables at Kensington themselves could
not turn out--I say had she been Mrs. Mango herself, or
her son's wife, Lady Mary Mango (daughter of the
Earl of Castlemouldy, who condescended to marry the
head of the firm), the tradesmen of the neighbourhood
could not pay her more honour than they invariably
showed to the gentle young widow, when she passed by
their doors, or made her humble purchases at their shops.

Thus it was not only Mr. Pestler, the medical man, but
Mr. Linton the young assistant, who doctored the servant
maids and small tradesmen, and might be seen any day
reading the Times in the surgery, who openly declared
himself the slave of Mrs. Osborne. He was a personable
young gentleman, more welcome at Mrs. Sedley's lodgings
than his principal; and if anything went wrong with
Georgy, he would drop in twice or thrice in the day to
see the little chap, and without so much as the thought
of a fee. He would abstract lozenges, tamarinds, and
other produce from the surgery-drawers for little
Georgy's benefit, and compounded draughts and mixtures
for him of miraculous sweetness, so that it was quite a
pleasure to the child to be ailing. He and Pestler, his
chief, sat up two whole nights by the boy in that
momentous and awful week when Georgy had the measles; and
when you would have thought, from the mother's terror,
that there had never been measles in the world before.
Would they have done as much for other people? Did
they sit up for the folks at the Pineries, when Ralph
Plantagenet, and Gwendoline, and Guinever Mango had the
same juvenile complaint? Did they sit up for little Mary
Clapp, the landlord's daughter, who actually caught the
disease of little Georgy? Truth compels one to say, no.
They slept quite undisturbed, at least as far as she was
concerned--pronounced hers to be a slight case, which
would almost cure itself, sent her in a draught or two,
and threw in bark when the child rallied, with perfect
indifference, and just for form's sake.

Again, there was the little French chevalier opposite,
who gave lessons in his native tongue at various schools
in the neighbourhood, aud who might be heard in his
apartment of nights playing tremulous old gavottes and
minuets on a wheezy old fiddle. Whenever this powdered
and courteous old man, who never missed a Sunday at the
convent chapel at Hammersmith, and who was in all
respects, thoughts, conduct, and bearing utterly unlike the
bearded savages of his nation, who curse perfidious
Albion, and scowl at you from over their cigars, in the
Quadrant arcades at the present day--whenever the
old Chevalier de Talonrouge spoke of Mistress Osborne,
he would first finish his pinch of snuff, flick away the
remaining particles of dust with a graceful wave of his
hand, gather up his fingers again into a bunch, and,
bringing them up to his mouth, blow them open with a kiss,
exclaiming, Ah! la divine creature! He vowed and
protested that when Amelia walked in the Brompton Lanes
flowers grew in profusion under her feet. He called little
Georgy Cupid, and asked him news of Venus, his mamma;
and told the astonished Betty Flanagan that she was
one of the Graces, and the favourite attendant of the
Reine des Amours.

Instances might be multiplied of this easily gained and
unconscious popularity. Did not Mr. Binny, the mild
and genteel curate of the district chapel, which the family
attended, call assiduously upon the widow, dandle the
little boy on his knee, and offer to teach him Latin, to the
anger of the elderly virgin, his sister, who kept house
for him? "There is nothing in her, Beilby," the latter
lady would say. "When she comes to tea here she does
not speak a word during the whole evening. She is but a
poor lackadaisical creature, and it is my belief has no
heart at all. It is only her pretty face which all you
gentlemen admire so. Miss Grits, who has five thousand
pounds, and expectations besides, has twice as much
character, and is a thousand times more agreeable to my
taste; and if she were good-looking I know that you would
think her perfection."

Very likely Miss Binny was right to a great extent. It
IS the pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of
men, those wicked rogues. A woman may possess the
wisdom and chastity of Minerva, and we give no heed to
her, if she has a plain face. What folly will not a pair of
bright eyes make pardonable? What dulness may not
red lips and sweet accents render pleasant? And so, with
their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a
woman is handsome, therefore she is a fool. O ladies,
ladies! there are some of you who are neither handsome
nor wise.

These are but trivial incidents to recount in the life of
our heroine. Her tale does not deal in wonders, as the
gentle reader has already no doubt perceived; and if a
journal had been kept of her proceedings during the
seven years after the birth of her son, there would be
found few incidents more remarkable in it than that of
the measles, recorded in the foregoing page. Yes, one
day, and greatly to her wonder, the Reverend Mr. Binny,
just mentioned, asked her to change her name of Osborne
for his own; when, with deep blushes and tears in her
eyes and voice, she thanked him for his regard for her,
expressed gratitude for his attentions to her and to her
poor little boy, but said that she never, never could
think of any but--but the husband whom she had lost.

On the twenty-fifth of April, and the eighteenth of
June, the days of marriage and widowhood, she kept her
room entirely, consecrating them (and we do not know
how many hours of solitary night-thought, her little boy
sleeping in his crib by her bedside) to the memory of that
departed friend. During the day she was more active.
She had to teach George to read and to write and a little
to draw. She read books, in order that she might tell
him stories from them. As his eyes opened and his mind
expanded under the influence of the outward nature
round about him, she taught the child, to the best of
her humble power, to acknowledge the Maker of all, and
every night and every morning he and she--(in that
awful and touching communion which I think must bring
a thrill to the heart of every man who witnesses or who
remembers it)--the mother and the little boy--prayed
to Our Father together, the mother pleading with all her
gentle heart, the child lisping after her as she spoke. And
each time they prayed to God to bless dear Papa, as
if he were alive and in the room with them.

To wash and dress this young gentleman--to take him
for a run of the mornings, before breakfast, and the
retreat of grandpapa for "business"--to make for him the
most wonderful and ingenious dresses, for which end the
thrifty widow cut up and altered every available little bit
of finery which she possessed out of her wardrobe during
her marriage--for Mrs. Osborne herself (greatly to her
mother's vexation, who preferred fine clothes, especially
since her misfortunes) always wore a black gown and a
straw bonnet with a black ribbon--occupied her many
hours of the day. Others she had to spare, at the service
of her mother and her old father. She had taken the pains
to learn, and used to play cribbage with this gentleman
on the nights when he did not go to his club. She sang
for him when he was so minded, and it was a good
sign, for he invariably fell into a comfortable sleep during
the music. She wrote out his numerous memorials,
letters, prospectuses, and projects. It was in her
handwriting that most of the old gentleman's former
acquaintances were informed that he had become an agent for
the Black Diamond and Anti-Cinder Coal Company and
could supply his friends and the public with the best coals
at --s. per chaldron. All he did was to sign the circulars
with his flourish and signature, and direct them in a
shaky, clerklike hand. One of these papers was sent to
Major Dobbin, --Regt., care of Messrs. Cox and Greenwood;
but the Major being in Madras at the time, had no
particular call for coals. He knew, though, the hand
which had written the prospectus. Good God! what
would he not have given to hold it in his own! A second
prospectus came out, informing the Major that J. Sedley
and Company, having established agencies at Oporto,
Bordeaux, and St. Mary's, were enabled to offer to their
friends and the public generally the finest and most
celebrated growths of ports, sherries, and claret wines at
reasonable prices and under extraordinary advantages.
Acting upon this hint, Dobbin furiously canvassed the
governor, the commander-in-chief, the judges, the
regiments, and everybody whom he knew in the Presidency,
and sent home to Sedley and Co. orders for wine which
perfectly astonished Mr. Sedley and Mr. Clapp, who was
the Co. in the business. But no more orders came after
that first burst of good fortune, on which poor old Sedley
was about to build a house in the City, a regiment of
clerks, a dock to himself, and correspondents all over
the world. The old gentleman's former taste in wine had
gone: the curses of the mess-room assailed Major Dobbin
for the vile drinks he had been the means of introducing
there; and he bought back a great quantity of the wine
and sold it at public outcry, at an enormous loss to himself.
As for Jos, who was by this time promoted to a seat
at the Revenue Board at Calcutta, he was wild with rage
when the post brought him out a bundle of these
Bacchanalian prospectuses, with a private note from his
father, telling Jos that his senior counted upon him in
this enterprise, and had consigned a quantity of select
wines to him, as per invoice, drawing bills upon him for
the amount of the same. Jos, who would no more have it
supposed that his father, Jos Sedley's father, of the Board
of Revenue, was a wine merchant asking for orders, than
that he was Jack Ketch, refused the bills with scorn, wrote
back contumeliously to the old gentleman, bidding him
to mind his own affairs; and the protested paper coming
back, Sedley and Co. had to take it up, with the profits
which they had made out of the Madras venture, and
with a little portion of Emmy's savings.

Besides her pension of fifty pounds a year, there had
been five hundred pounds, as her husband's executor
stated, left in the agent's hands at the time of Osborne's
demise, which sum, as George's guardian, Dobbin
proposed to put out at 8 per cent in an Indian house of
agency. Mr. Sedley, who thought the Major had some
roguish intentions of his own about the money, was
strongly against this plan; and he went to the agents to
protest personally against the employment of the money
in question, when he learned, to his surprise, that there
had been no such sum in their hands, that all the late
Captain's assets did not amount to a hundred pounds,
and that the five hundred pounds in question must be a
separate sum, of which Major Dobbin knew the particulars.
More than ever convinced that there was some
roguery, old Sedley pursued the Major. As his daughter's
nearest friend, he demanded with a high hand a statement
of the late Captain's accounts. Dobbin's stammering,
blushing, and awkwardness added to the other's
convictions that he had a rogue to deal with, and in a
majestic tone he told that officer a piece of his mind, as
he called it, simply stating his belief that the Major was
unlawfully detaining his late son-in-law's money.

Dobbin at this lost all patience, and if his accuser had
not been so old and so broken, a quarrel might have
ensued between them at the Slaughters' Coffee-house, in
a box of which place of entertainment the gentlemen had
their colloquy. "Come upstairs, sir," lisped out the
Major. "I insist on your coming up the stairs, and I will
show which is the injured party, poor George or I"; and,
dragging the old gentleman up to his bedroom, he
produced from his desk Osborne's accounts, and a bundle
of IOU's which the latter had given, who, to do him
justice, was always ready to give an IOU. "He paid
his bills in England," Dobbin added, "but he had not a
hundred pounds in the world when he fell. I and one or
two of his brother officers made up the little sum, which
was all that we could spare, and you dare tell us that
we are trying to cheat the widow and the orphan."
Sedley was very contrite and humbled, though the fact is
that William Dobbin had told a great falsehood to the old
gentleman; having himself given every shilling of the
money, having buried his friend, and paid all the fees and
charges incident upon the calamity and removal of poor
Amelia.

About these expenses old Osborne had never given
himself any trouble to think, nor any other relative of
Amelia, nor Amelia herself, indeed. She trusted to Major
Dobbin as an accountant, took his somewhat confused
calculations for granted, and never once suspected how
much she was in his debt.

Twice or thrice in the year, according to her promise,
she wrote him letters to Madras, letters all about
little Georgy. How he treasured these papers! Whenever
Amelia wrote he answered, and not until then. But
he sent over endless remembrances of himself to his
godson and to her. He ordered and sent a box of scarfs
and a grand ivory set of chess-men from China. The
pawns were little green and white men, with real swords
and shields; the knights were on horseback, the castles
were on the backs of elephants. "Mrs. Mango's own set at
the Pineries was not so fine," Mr. Pestler remarked. These
chess-men were the delight of Georgy's life, who printed
his first letter in acknowledgement of this gift of his
godpapa. He sent over preserves and pickles, which latter
the young gentleman tried surreptitiously in the sideboard
and half-killed himself with eating. He thought it was a
judgement upon him for stealing, they were so hot. Emmy
wrote a comical little account of this mishap to the
Major: it pleased him to think that her spirits were rallying
and that she could be merry sometimes now. He
sent over a pair of shawls, a white one for her and a black
one with palm-leaves for her mother, and a pair of red
scarfs, as winter wrappers, for old Mr. Sedley and George.
The shawls were worth fifty guineas apiece at the very
least, as Mrs. Sedley knew. She wore hers in state at
church at Brompton, and was congratulated by her
female friends upon the splendid acquisition. Emmy's, too,
became prettily her modest black gown. "What a pity it
is she won't think of him!" Mrs. Sedley remarked to
Mrs. Clapp and to all her friends of Brompton. "Jos never
sent us such presents, I am sure, and grudges us
everything. It is evident that the Major is over head and ears
in love with her; and yet, whenever I so much as hint it,
she turns red and begins to cry and goes and sits upstairs
with her miniature. I'm sick of that miniature. I wish we
had never seen those odious purse-proud Osbornes."

Amidst such humble scenes and associates George's
early youth was passed, and the boy grew up delicate,
sensitive, imperious, woman-bred--domineering the
gentle mother whom he loved with passionate affection. He
ruled all the rest of the little world round about him.
As he grew, the elders were amazed at his haughty
manner and his constant likeness to his father. He asked
questions about everything, as inquiring youth will do. The
profundity of his remarks and interrogatories astonished
his old grandfather, who perfectly bored the club at the
tavern with stories about the little lad's learning and
genius. He suffered his grandmother with a good-humoured indifference. The small circle round about him
believed that the equal of the boy did not exist upon the
earth. Georgy inherited his father's pride, and perhaps
thought they were not wrong.

When he grew to be about six years old, Dobbin began
to write to him very much. The Major wanted to hear
that Georgy was going to a school and hoped he would
acquit himself with credit there: or would he have a good
tutor at home? It was time that he should begin to learn;
and his godfather and guardian hinted that he hoped to
be allowed to defray the charges of the boy's education,
which would fall heavily upon his mother's straitened
income. The Major, in a word, was always thinking about
Amelia and her little boy, and by orders to his agents
kept the latter provided with picture-books, paint-boxes,
desks, and all conceivable implements of amusement and
instruction. Three days before George's sixth birthday a
gentleman in a gig, accompanied by a servant, drove
up to Mr. Sedley's house and asked to see Master George
Osborne: it was Mr. Woolsey, military tailor, of Conduit
Street, who came at the Major's order to measure the
young gentleman for a suit of clothes. He had had the
honour of making for the Captain, the young
gentleman's father.

Sometimes, too, and by the Major's desire no doubt,
his sisters, the Misses Dobbin, would call in the family
carriage to take Amelia and the little boy to drive if they
were so inclined. The patronage and kindness of these
ladies was very uncomfortable to Amelia, but she bore it
meekly enough, for her nature was to yield; and, besides,
the carriage and its splendours gave little Georgy
immense pleasure. The ladies begged occasionally that the
child might pass a day with them, and he was always glad
to go to that fine garden-house at Denmark Hill, where
they lived, and where there were such fine grapes in the
hot-houses and peaches on the walls.

One day they kindly came over to Amelia with news
which they were SURE would delight her--something VERY
interesting about their dear William.

"What was it: was he coming home?" she asked with
pleasure beaming in her eyes.

"Oh, no--not the least--but they had very good reason
to believe that dear William was about to be married--
and to a relation of a very dear friend of Amelia's--to
Miss Glorvina O'Dowd, Sir Michael O'Dowd's sister,
who had gone out to join Lady O'Dowd at Madras--a very
beautiful and accomplished girl, everybody said."

Amelia said "Oh!" Amelia was very VERY happy indeed.
But she supposed Glorvina could not be like her old
acquaintance, who was most kind--but--but she was
very happy indeed. And by some impulse of which I
cannot explain the meaning, she took George in her arms
and kissed him with an extraordinary tenderness. Her
eyes were quite moist when she put the child down; and
she scarcely spoke a word during the whole of the
drive--though she was so very happy indeed.

CHAPTER XXXIX

A Cynical Chapter

Our duty now takes us back for a brief space to some old
Hampshire acquaintances of ours, whose hopes respecting
the disposal of their rich kinswoman's property were so
woefully disappointed. After counting upon thirty thousand
pounds from his sister, it was a heavy blow. to Bute Crawley
to receive but five; out of which sum, when he had paid
his own debts and those of Jim, his son at college, a very
small fragment remained to portion off his four plain
daughters. Mrs. Bute never knew, or at least never
acknowledged, how far her own tyrannous behaviour had
tended to ruin her husband. All that woman could do, she
vowed and protested she had done. Was it her fault if
she did not possess those sycophantic arts which her
hypocritical nephew, Pitt Crawley, practised? She wished
him all the happiness which he merited out of his
ill-gotten gains. "At least the money will remain in the
family," she said charitably. "Pitt will never spend it, my
dear, that is quite certain; for a greater miser does not
exist in England, and he is as odious, though in a
different way, as his spendthrift brother, the abandoned
Rawdon."

So Mrs. Bute, after the first shock of rage and
disappointment, began to accommodate herself as best
she could to her altered fortunes and to save and retrench
with all her might. She instructed her daughters how to
bear poverty cheerfully, and invented a thousand notable
methods to conceal or evade it. She took them about to
balls and public places in the neighbourhood, with
praiseworthy energy; nay, she entertained her friends in a
hospitable comfortable manner at the Rectory, and much
more frequently than before dear Miss Crawley's legacy
had fallen in. From her outward bearing nobody would
have supposed that the family had been disappointed
in their expectations, or have guessed from her frequent
appearance in public how she pinched and starved at
home. Her girls had more milliners' furniture than they
had ever enjoyed before. They appeared perseveringly
at the Winchester and Southampton assemblies; they
penetrated to Cowes for the race-balls and regatta-gaieties
there; and their carriage, with the horses taken from the
plough, was at work perpetually, until it began almost to
be believed that the four sisters had had fortunes left them
by their aunt, whose name the family never mentioned in
public but with the most tender gratitude and regard. I
know no sort of lying which is more frequent in Vanity
Fair than this, and it may be remarked how people who
practise it take credit to themselves for their hypocrisy,
and fancy that they are exceedingly virtuous and
praiseworthy, because they are able to deceive the world
with regard to the extent of their means.

Mrs. Bute certainly thought herself one of the most
virtuous women in England, and the sight of her happy
family was an edifying one to strangers. They were so
cheerful, so loving, so well-educated, so simple! Martha
painted flowers exquisitely and furnished half the charity
bazaars in the county. Emma was a regular County Bulbul,
and her verses in the Hampshire Telegraph were
the glory of its Poet's Corner. Fanny and Matilda sang
duets together, Mamma playing the piano, and the other
two sisters sitting with their arms round each other's waists
and listening affectionately. Nobody saw the poor girls
drumming at the duets in private. No one saw Mamma
drilling them rigidly hour after hour. In a word, Mrs. Bute
put a good face against fortune and kept up appearances
in the most virtuous manner.

Everything that a good and respectable mother could
do Mrs. Bute did. She got over yachting men from
Southampton, parsons from the Cathedral Close at Winchester,
and officers from the barracks there. She tried to inveigle
the young barristers at assizes and encouraged Jim to
bring home friends with whom he went out hunting with
the H. H. What will not a mother do for the benefit of
her beloved ones?

Between such a woman and her brother-in-law, the
odious Baronet at the Hall, it is manifest that there could
be very little in common. The rupture between Bute and
his brother Sir Pitt was complete; indeed, between Sir
Pitt and the whole county, to which the old man was a
scandal. His dislike for respectable society increased with
age, and the lodge-gates had not opened to a gentleman's
carriage-wheels since Pitt and Lady Jane came to pay their
visit of duty after their marriage.

That was an awful and unfortunate visit, never to be
thought of by the family without horror. Pitt begged his
wife, with a ghastly countenance, never to speak of it,
and it was only through Mrs. Bute herself, who still
knew everything which took place at the Hall, that the
circumstances of Sir Pitt's reception of his son and
daughter-in-law were ever known at all.

As they drove up the avenue of the park in their neat
and well-appointed carriage, Pitt remarked with dismay
and wrath great gaps among the trees--his trees--which
the old Baronet was felling entirely without license. The
park wore an aspect of utter dreariness and ruin. The
drives were ill kept, and the neat carriage splashed and
floundered in muddy pools along the road. The great
sweep in front of the terrace and entrance stair was
black and covered with mosses; the once trim flower-beds
rank and weedy. Shutters were up along almost the
whole line of the house; the great hall-door was unbarred
after much ringing of the bell; an individual in ribbons
was seen flitting up the black oak stair, as Horrocks at
length admitted the heir of Queen's Crawley and his bride
into the halls of their fathers. He led the way into Sir
Pitt's "Library," as it was called, the fumes of tobacco
growing stronger as Pitt and Lady Jane approached that
apartment, "Sir Pitt ain't very well," Horrocks remarked
apologetically and hinted that his master was afflicted
with lumbago.

The library looked out on the front walk and park.
Sir Pitt had opened one of the windows, and was bawling
out thence to the postilion and Pitt's servant, who seemed
to be about to take the baggage down.

"Don't move none of them trunks," he cried, pointing
with a pipe which he held in his hand. "It's only a morning
visit, Tucker, you fool. Lor, what cracks that off hoss
has in his heels! Ain't there no one at the King's Head to
rub 'em a little? How do, Pitt? How do, my dear? Come
to see the old man, hay? 'Gad--you've a pretty face, too.
You ain't like that old horse-godmother, your mother.
Come and give old Pitt a kiss, like a good little gal."

The embrace disconcerted the daughter-in-law
somewhat, as the caresses of the old gentleman, unshorn and
perfumed with tobacco, might well do. But she
remembered that her brother Southdown had mustachios,
and smoked cigars, and submitted to the Baronet with a
tolerable grace.

"Pitt has got vat," said the Baronet, after this mark of
affection. "Does he read ee very long zermons, my dear?
Hundredth Psalm, Evening Hymn, hay Pitt? Go and get
a glass of Malmsey and a cake for my Lady Jane, Horrocks,
you great big booby, and don't stand stearing there like
a fat pig. I won't ask you to stop, my dear; you'll find it too
stoopid, and so should I too along a Pitt. I'm an old man
now, and like my own ways, and my pipe and backgammon
of a night."

"I can play at backgammon, sir," said Lady Jane,
laughing. "I used to play with Papa and Miss Crawley, didn't
I, Mr. Crawley?"

"Lady Jane can play, sir, at the game to which you
state that you are so partial," Pitt said haughtily.

But she wawn't stop for all that. Naw, naw, goo back
to Mudbury and give Mrs. Rincer a benefit; or drive down
to the Rectory and ask Buty for a dinner. He'll be charmed
to see you, you know; he's so much obliged to you for
gettin' the old woman's money. Ha, ha! Some of it will
do to patch up the Hall when I'm gone."

"I perceive, sir," said Pitt with a heightened voice,
"that your people will cut down the timber."

"Yees, yees, very fine weather, and seasonable for the
time of year," Sir Pitt answered, who had suddenly
grown deaf. "But I'm gittin' old, Pitt, now. Law bless you,
you ain't far from fifty yourself. But he wears well, my
pretty Lady Jane, don't he? It's all godliness, sobriety, and
a moral life. Look at me, I'm not very fur from fowr-score
--he, he"; and he laughed, and took snuff, and leered
at her and pinched her hand.

Pitt once more brought the conversation back to the
timber, but the Baronet was deaf again in an instant.

"I'm gittin' very old, and have been cruel bad this year
with the lumbago. I shan't be here now for long; but I'm
glad ee've come, daughter-in-law. I like your face, Lady
Jane: it's got none of the damned high-boned Binkie look
in it; and I'll give ee something pretty, my dear, to go to
Court in." And he shuffled across the room to a cupboard,
from which he took a little old case containing jewels of
some value. "Take that," said he, "my dear; it belonged
to my mother, and afterwards to the first Lady Binkie.
Pretty pearls--never gave 'em the ironmonger's daughter.
No, no. Take 'em and put 'em up quick," said he, thrusting
the case into his daughter's hand, and clapping the door of
the cabinet to, as Horrocks entered with a salver and
refreshments.

"What have you a been and given Pitt's wife?" said
the individual in ribbons, when Pitt and Lady Jane had
taken leave of the old gentleman. It was Miss Horrocks,
the butler's daughter--the cause of the scandal
throughout the county--the lady who reigned now almost
supreme at Queen's Crawley.

The rise and progress of those Ribbons had been
marked with dismay by the county and family. The
Ribbons opened an account at the Mudbury Branch Savings
Bank; the Ribbons drove to church, monopolising the
pony-chaise, which was for the use of the servants at
the Hall. The domestics were dismissed at her pleasure.
The Scotch gardener, who still lingered on the premises,
taking a pride in his walls and hot-houses, and indeed
making a pretty good livelihood by the garden, which he
farmed, and of which he sold the produce at Southampton,
found the Ribbons eating peaches on a sunshiny morning
at the south-wall, and had his ears boxed when he
remonstrated about this attack on his property. He and
his Scotch wife and his Scotch children, the only
respectable inhabitants of Queen's Crawley, were forced to
migrate, with their goods and their chattels, and left the
stately comfortable gardens to go to waste, and the
flower-beds to run to seed. Poor Lady Crawley's rose-garden
became the dreariest wilderness. Only two or three
domestics shuddered in the bleak old servants' hall. The
stables and offices were vacant, and shut up, and half
ruined. Sir Pitt lived in private, and boozed nightly with
Horrocks, his butler or house-steward (as he now began
to be called), and the abandoned Ribbons. The times
were very much changed since the period when she drove
to Mudbury in the spring-cart and called the small tradesmen
"Sir." It may have been shame, or it may have been
dislike of his neighbours, but the old Cynic of Queen's
Crawley hardly issued from his park-gates at all now. He
quarrelled with his agents and screwed his tenants by
letter. His days were passed in conducting his own
correspondence; the lawyers and farm-bailiffs who had to
do business with him could not reach him but through the
Ribbons, who received them at the door of the
housekeeper's room, which commanded the back entrance by
which they were admitted; and so the Baronet's daily
perplexities increased, and his embarrassments multiplied
round him.

The horror of Pitt Crawley may be imagined, as these
reports of his father's dotage reached the most exemplary
and correct of gentlemen. He trembled daily lest he should
hear that the Ribbons was proclaimed his second legal
mother-in-law. After that first and last visit, his father's
name was never mentioned in Pitt's polite and genteel
establishment. It was the skeleton in his house, and all the
family walked by it in terror and silence. The Countess
Southdown kept on dropping per coach at the lodge-gate
the most exciting tracts, tracts which ought to frighten
the hair off your head. Mrs. Bute at the parsonage
nightly looked out to see if the sky was red over the
elms behind which the Hall stood, and the mansion was on
fire. Sir G. Wapshot and Sir H. Fuddlestone, old friends of
the house, wouldn't sit on the bench with Sir Pitt at
Quarter Sessions, and cut him dead in the High Street
of Southampton, where the reprobate stood offering his
dirty old hands to them. Nothing had any effect upon him;
he put his hands into his pockets, and burst out laughing,
as he scrambled into his carriage and four; he used to
burst out laughing at Lady Southdown's tracts; and he
laughed at his sons, and at the world, and at the
Ribbons when she was angry, which was not seldom.

Miss Horrocks was installed as housekeeper at Queen's
Crawley, and ruled all the domestics there with great
majesty and rigour. All the servants were instructed to
address her as "Mum," or "Madam"--and there was one
little maid, on her promotion, who persisted in calling
her "My Lady," without any rebuke on the part of the
housekeeper. "There has been better ladies, and there
has been worser, Hester," was Miss Horrocks' reply to
this compliment of her inferior; so she ruled, having
supreme power over all except her father, whom,
however, she treated with considerable haughtiness, warning
him not to be too familiar in his behaviour to one "as was
to be a Baronet's lady." Indeed, she rehearsed that exalted
part in life with great satisfaction to herself, and to the
amusement of old Sir Pitt, who chuckled at her airs and
graces, and would laugh by the hour together at her
assumptions of dignity and imitations of genteel life.
He swore it was as good as a play to see her in the
character of a fine dame, and he made her put on one of
the first Lady Crawley's court-dresses, swearing (entirely
to Miss Horrocks' own concurrence) that the dress
became her prodigiously, and threatening to drive her off
that very instant to Court in a coach-and-four. She had
the ransacking of the wardrobes of the two defunct ladies,
and cut and hacked their posthumous finery so as to suit
her own tastes and figure. And she would have liked to
take possession of their jewels and trinkets too; but the
old Baronet had locked them away in his private cabinet;
nor could she coax or wheedle him out of the keys. And
it is a fact, that some time after she left Queen's Crawley
a copy-book belonging to this lady was discovered, which
showed that she had taken great pains in private to learn
the art of writing in general, and especially of writing
her own name as Lady Crawley, Lady Betsy Horrocks,
Lady Elizabeth Crawley, &c.

Though the good people of the Parsonage never went to
the Hall and shunned the horrid old dotard its owner, yet
they kept a strict knowledge of all that happened there,
and were looking out every day for the catastrophe for
which Miss Horrocks was also eager. But Fate intervened
enviously and prevented her from receiving the reward due
to such immaculate love and virtue.

One day the Baronet surprised "her ladyship," as he
jocularly called her, seated at that old and tuneless piano
in the drawing-room, which had scarcely been touched
since Becky Sharp played quadrilles upon it--seated at
the piano with the utmost gravity and squalling to the
best of her power in imitation of the music which she
had sometimes heard. The little kitchen-maid on her
promotion was standing at her mistress's side, quite delighted
during the operation, and wagging her head up and down
and crying, "Lor, Mum, 'tis bittiful"--just like a genteel
sycophant in a real drawing-room.

This incident made the old Baronet roar with laughter,
as usual. He narrated the circumstance a dozen times to
Horrocks in the course of the evening, and greatly to the
discomfiture of Miss Horrocks. He thrummed on the table
as if it had been a musical instrument, and squalled in
imitation of her manner of singing. He vowed that such
a beautiful voice ought to be cultivated and declared she
ought to have singing-masters, in which proposals she
saw nothing ridiculous. He was in great spirits that night,
and drank with his friend and butler an extraordinary
quantity of rum-and-water--at a very late hour the
faithful friend and domestic conducted his master to his
bedroom.

Half an hour afterwards there was a great hurry and
bustle in the house. Lights went about from window to
window in the lonely desolate old Hall, whereof but two or
three rooms were ordinarily occupied by its owner.
Presently, a boy on a pony went galloping off to Mudbury,
to the Doctor's house there. And in another hour (by
which fact we ascertain how carefully the excellent Mrs.
Bute Crawley had always kept up an understanding with
the great house), that lady in her clogs and calash, the
Reverend Bute Crawley, and James Crawley, her son,
had walked over from the Rectory through the park, and
had entered the mansion by the open hall-door.

They passed through the hall and the small oak parlour,
on the table of which stood the three tumblers and the
empty rum-bottle which had served for Sir Pitt's carouse,
and through that apartment into Sir Pitt's study, where
they found Miss Horrocks, of the guilty ribbons, with a
wild air, trying at the presses and escritoires with a
bunch of keys. She dropped them with a scream of
terror, as little Mrs. Bute's eyes flashed out at her from
under her black calash.

"Look at that, James and Mr. Crawley,?" cried Mrs.
Bute, pointing at the scared figure of the black-eyed,
guilty wench.

"He gave 'em me; he gave 'em me!" she cried.

"Gave them you, you abandoned creature!" screamed
Mrs. Bute. "Bear witness, Mr. Crawley, we found this
good-for-nothing woman in the act of stealing your
brother's property; and she will be hanged, as I always
said she would."

Betsy Horrocks, quite daunted, flung herself down on
her knees, bursting into tears. But those who know a really
good woman are aware that she is not in a hurry to
forgive, and that the humiliation of an enemy is a triumph
to her soul.

"Ring the bell, James," Mrs. Bute said. "Go on ringing it
till the people come." The three or four domestics
resident in the deserted old house came presently at that
jangling and continued summons.

"Put that woman in the strong-room," she said. "We
caught her in the act of robbing Sir Pitt. Mr. Crawley,
you'll make out her committal--and, Beddoes, you'll
drive her over in the spring cart, in the morning, to
Southampton Gaol."

"My dear," interposed the Magistrate and Rector--
"she's only--"

"Are there no handcuffs?" Mrs. Bute continued,
stamping in her clogs. "There used to be handcuffs.
Where's the creature's abominable father?"

"He DID give 'em me," still cried poor Betsy; "didn't
he, Hester? You saw Sir Pitt--you know you did--
give 'em me, ever so long ago--the day after Mudbury
fair: not that I want 'em. Take 'em if you think they
ain't mine." And here the unhappy wretch pulled out
from her pocket a large pair of paste shoe-buckles which
had excited her admiration, and which she had just
appropriated out of one of the bookcases in the study,
where they had lain.

"Law, Betsy, how could you go for to tell such a wicked
story!" said Hester, the little kitchen-maid late on her
promotion--"and to Madame Crawley, so good and kind,
and his Rev'rince (with a curtsey), and you may search
all MY boxes, Mum, I'm sure, and here's my keys as I'm
an honest girl, though of pore parents and workhouse
bred--and if you find so much as a beggarly bit of lace
or a silk stocking out of all the gownds as YOU'VE had the
picking of, may I never go to church agin."

"Give up your keys, you hardened hussy," hissed out
the virtuous little lady in the calash.

"And here's a candle, Mum, and if you please, Mum,
I can show you her room, Mum, and the press in the
housekeeper's room, Mum, where she keeps heaps and
heaps of things, Mum," cried out the eager little Hester
with a profusion of curtseys.

"Hold your tongue, if you please. I know the room
which the creature occupies perfectly well. Mrs. Brown,
have the goodness to come with me, and Beddoes don't
you lose sight of that woman," said Mrs. Bute, seizing the
candle. "Mr. Crawley, you had better go upstairs and
see that they are not murdering your unfortunate brother"
--and the calash, escorted by Mrs. Brown, walked away
to the apartment which, as she said truly, she knew
perfectly well.

Bute went upstairs and found the Doctor from
Mudbury, with the frightened Horrocks over his master in a
chair. They were trying to bleed Sir Pitt Crawley.

With the early morning an express was sent off to Mr.
Pitt Crawley by the Rector's lady, who assumed the
command of everything, and had watched the old Baronet
through the night. He had been brought back to a sort of
life; he could not speak, but seemed to recognize people.
Mrs. Bute kept resolutely by his bedside. She never seemed
to want to sleep, that little woman, and did not close her
fiery black eyes once, though the Doctor snored in the
arm-chair. Horrocks made some wild efforts to assert
his authority and assist his master; but Mrs. Bute called
him a tipsy old wretch and bade him never show his face
again in that house, or he should be transported like his
abominable daughter.

Terrified by her manner, he slunk down to the oak
parlour where Mr. James was, who, having tried the
bottle standing there and found no liquor in it, ordered
Mr. Horrocks to get another bottle of rum, which he
fetched, with clean glasses, and to which the Rector and
his son sat down, ordering Horrocks to put down the keys
at that instant and never to show his face again.

Cowed by this behaviour, Horrocks gave up the keys,
and he and his daughter slunk off silently through the
night and gave up possession of the house of Queen's
Crawley.

CHAPTER XL

In Which Becky Is Recognized by the Family

The heir of Crawley arrived at home, in due time, after
this catastrophe, and henceforth may be said to have
reigned in Queen's Crawley. For though the old Baronet
survived many months, he never recovered the use of
his intellect or his speech completely, and the government
of the estate devolved upon his elder son. In a
strange condition Pitt found it. Sir Pitt was always buying
and mortgaging; he had twenty men of business, and
quarrels with each; quarrels with all his tenants, and
lawsuits with them; lawsuits with the lawyers; lawsuits
with the Mining and Dock Companies in which he was
proprietor; and with every person with whom he had
business. To unravel these difficulties and to set the
estate clear was a task worthy of the orderly and
persevering diplomatist of Pumpernickel, and he set
himself to work with prodigious assiduity. His whole family,
of course, was transported to Queen's Crawley, whither
Lady Southdown, of course, came too; and she set about
converting the parish under the Rector's nose, and
brought down her irregular clergy to the dismay of the
angry Mrs Bute. Sir Pitt had concluded no bargain for
the sale of the living of Queen's Crawley; when it should
drop, her Ladyship proposed to take the patronage into
her own hands and present a young protege to the
Rectory, on which subject the diplomatic Pitt said
nothing.

Mrs. Bute's intentions with regard to Miss Betsy
Horrocks were not carried into effect, and she paid no visit
to Southampton Gaol. She and her father left the Hall
when the latter took possession of the Crawley Arms in
the village, of which he had got a lease from Sir Pitt.
The ex-butler had obtained a small freehold there
likewise, which gave him a vote for the borough. The Rector
had another of these votes, and these and four others
formed the representative body which returned the two
members for Queen's Crawley.

There was a show of courtesy kept up between the
Rectory and the Hall ladies, between the younger ones at
least, for Mrs. Bute and Lady Southdown never could
meet without battles, and gradually ceased seeing each
other. Her Ladyship kept her room when the ladies from
the Rectory visited their cousins at the Hall. Perhaps Mr.
Pitt was not very much displeased at these occasional
absences of his mamma-in-law. He believed the Binkie
family to be the greatest and wisest and most interesting
in the world, and her Ladyship and his aunt had long held
ascendency over him; but sometimes he felt that she
commanded him too much. To be considered young was
complimentary, doubtless, but at six-and-forty to be
treated as a boy was sometimes mortifying. Lady Jane
yielded up everything, however, to her mother. She was
only fond of her children in private, and it was lucky
for her that Lady Southdown's multifarious business, her
conferences with ministers, and her correspondence with
all the missionaries of Africa, Asia, aud Australasia, &c.,
occupied the venerable Countess a great deal, so that
she had but little time to devote to her granddaughter,
the little Matilda, and her grandson, Master Pitt Crawley.
The latter was a feeble child, and it was only by
prodigious quantities of calomel that Lady Southdown was
able to keep him in life at all.

As for Sir Pitt he retired into those very apartments
where Lady Crawley had been previously extinguished,
and here was tended by Miss Hester, the girl upon her
promotion, with constant care and assiduity. What love,
what fidelity, what constancy is there equal to that of a
nurse with good wages? They smooth pillows; and make
arrowroot; they get up at nights; they bear complaints
and querulousness; they see the sun shining out of doors
and don't want to go abroad; they sleep on arm-chairs
and eat their meals in solitude; they pass long long
evenings doing nothing, watching the embers, and the
patient's drink simmering in the jug; they read the weekly
paper the whole week through; and Law's Serious Call or
the Whole Duty of Man suffices them for literature for
the year--and we quarrel with them because, when their
relations come to see them once a week, a little gin
is smuggled in in their linen basket. Ladies, what man's
love is there that would stand a year's nursing of the
object of his affection? Whereas a nurse will stand by you
for ten pounds a quarter, and we think her too highly
paid. At least Mr. Crawley grumbled a good deal about
paying half as much to Miss Hester for her constant
attendance upon the Baronet his father.

Of sunshiny days this old gentleman was taken out in a
chair on the terrace--the very chair which Miss Crawley
had had at Brighton, and which had been transported
thence with a number of Lady Southdown's effects to
Queen's Crawley. Lady Jane always walked by the old
man, and was an evident favourite with him. He used to
nod many times to her and smile when she came in, and
utter inarticulate deprecatory moans when she was going
away. When the door shut upon her he would cry and
sob--whereupon Hester's face and manner, which was
always exceedingly bland and gentle while her lady was
present, would change at once, and she would make faces
at him and clench her fist and scream out "Hold your
tongue, you stoopid old fool," and twirl away his chair
from the fire which he loved to look at--at which he
would cry more. For this was all that was left after more
than seventy years of cunning, and struggling, and
drinking, and scheming, and sin and selfishness--a
whimpering old idiot put in and out of bed and cleaned
and fed like a baby.

At last a day came when the nurse's occupation was
over. Early one morning, as Pitt Crawley was at his
steward's and bailiff's books in the study, a knock came
to the door, and Hester presented herself, dropping a
curtsey, and said,

"If you please, Sir Pitt, Sir Pitt died this morning, Sir
Pitt. I was a-making of his toast, Sir Pitt, for his gruel,
Sir Pitt, which he took every morning regular at six, Sir
Pitt, and--I thought I heard a moan-like, Sir Pitt--and--
and--and--" She dropped another curtsey.

What was it that made Pitt's pale face flush quite
red? Was it because he was Sir Pitt at last, with a seat
in Parliament, and perhaps future honours in prospect?
"I'll clear the estate now with the ready money," he
thought and rapidly calculated its incumbrances and the
improvements which he would make. He would not use his
aunt's money previously lest Sir Pitt should recover and
his outlay be in vain.

All the blinds were pulled down at the Hall and Rectory:
the church bell was tolled, and the chancel hung in
black; and Bute Crawley didn't go to a coursing meeting,
but went and dined quietly at Fuddleston, where
they talked about his deceased brother and young Sir
Pitt over their port. Miss Betsy, who was by this time
married to a saddler at Mudbury, cried a good deal.
The family surgeon rode over and paid his respectful
compliments, and inquiries for the health of their
ladyships. The death was talked about at Mudbury and at
the Crawley Arms, the landlord whereof had become
reconciled with the Rector of late, who was occasionally
known to step into the parlour and taste Mr. Horrocks'
mild beer.

"Shall I write to your brother--or will you?" asked
Lady Jane of her husband, Sir Pitt.

"I will write, of course," Sir Pitt said, "and invite him
to the funeral: it will be but becoming."

"And--and--Mrs. Rawdon," said Lady Jane timidly.

"Jane!" said Lady Southdown, "how can you think of
such a thing?"

"Mrs. Rawdon must of course be asked," said Sir Pitt,
resolutely.

"Not whilst I am in the house!" said Lady Southdown.

"Your Ladyship will be pleased to recollect that I am
the head of this family," Sir Pitt replied. "If you please,
Lady Jane, you will write a letter to Mrs. Rawdon
Crawley, requesting her presence upon this melancholy
occasion."

"Jane, I forbid you to put pen to paper!" cried the
Countess.

"I believe I am the head of this family," Sir Pitt
repeated; "and however much I may regret any
circumstance which may lead to your Ladyship quitting this
house, must, if you please, continue to govern it as I see
fit."

Lady Southdown rose up as magnificent as Mrs. Siddons
in Lady Macbeth and ordered that horses might be put
to her carriage. If her son and daughter turned her out
of their house, she would hide her sorrows somewhere in
loneliness and pray for their conversion to better
thoughts.

"We don't turn you out of our house, Mamma," said
the timid Lady Jane imploringly.

"You invite such company to it as no Christian lady
should meet, and I will have my horses to-morrow
morning."

"Have the goodness to write, Jane, under my dictation,"
said Sir Pitt, rising and throwing himself into an attitude
of command, like the portrait of a Gentleman in the
Exhibition, "and begin. 'Queen's Crawley, September 14,
1822.--My dear brother--' "

Hearing these decisive and terrible words, Lady Macbeth,
who had been waiting for a sign of weakness or
vacillation on the part of her son-in-law, rose and, with a
scared look, left the library. Lady Jane looked up to
her husband as if she would fain follow and soothe her
mamma, but Pitt forbade his wife to move.

"She won't go away," he said. "She has let her house
at Brighton and has spent her last half-year's dividends.
A Countess living at an inn is a ruined woman. I have
been waiting long for an opportunity--to take this--this
decisive step, my love; for, as you must perceive, it is
impossible that there should be two chiefs in a family:
and now, if you please, we will resume the dictation. 'My
dear brother, the melancholy intelligence which it is my
duty to convey to my family must have been long
anticipated by,' " &c.

In a word, Pitt having come to his kingdom, and having
by good luck, or desert rather, as he considered, assumed
almost all the fortune which his other relatives
had expected, was determined to treat his family kindly
and respectably and make a house of Queen's Crawley
once more. It pleased him to think that he should be its
chief. He proposed to use the vast influence that his
commanding talents and position must speedily acquire
for him in the county to get his brother placed and his
cousins decently provided for, and perhaps had a little
sting of repentance as he thought that he was the
proprietor of all that they had hoped for. In the course of
three or four days' reign his bearing was changed and
his plans quite fixed: he determined to rule justly and
honestly, to depose Lady Southdown, and to be on the
friendliest possible terms with all the relations of his
blood.

So he dictated a letter to his brother Rawdon--a solemn
and elaborate letter, containing the profoundest
observations, couched in the longest words, and filling with
wonder the simple little secretary, who wrote under her
husband's order. "What an orator this will be," thought
she, "when he enters the House of Commons" (on which
point, and on the tyranny of Lady Southdown, Pitt had
sometimes dropped hints to his wife in bed); "how wise
and good, and what a genius my husband is! I fancied
him a little cold; but how good, and what a genius!"

The fact is, Pitt Crawley had got every word of the
letter by heart and had studied it, with diplomatic
secrecy, deeply and perfectly, long before he thought fit to
communicate it to his astonished wife.

This letter, with a huge black border and seal, was
accordingly despatched by Sir Pitt Crawley to his brother
the Colonel, in London. Rawdon Crawley was but
half-pleased at the receipt of it. "What's the use of going
down to that stupid place?" thought he. "I can't stand
being alone with Pitt after dinner, and horses there
and back will cost us twenty pound."

He carried the letter, as he did all difficulties, to Becky,
upstairs in her bedroom--with her chocolate, which he
always made and took to her of a morning.

He put the tray with the breakfast and the letter on
the dressing-table, before which Becky sat combing her
yellow hair. She took up the black-edged missive, and
having read it, she jumped up from the chair, crying
"Hurray!" and waving the note round her head.

"Hurray?" said Rawdon, wondering at the little figure
capering about in a streaming flannel dressing-gown, with
tawny locks dishevelled. "He's not left us anything,
Becky. I had my share when I came of age."

"You'll never be of age, you silly old man," Becky
replied. "Run out now to Madam Brunoy's, for I must
have some mourning: and get a crape on your hat, and a
black waistcoat--I don't think you've got one; order it
to be brought home to-morrow, so that we may be able
to start on Thursday."

"You don't mean to go?" Rawdon interposed.

"Of course I mean to go. I mean that Lady Jane shall
present me at Court next year. I mean that your brother
shall give you a seat in Parliament, you stupid old
creature. I mean that Lord Steyne shall have your vote and
his, my dear, old silly man; and that you shall be an Irish
Secretary, or a West Indian Governor: or a Treasurer,
or a Consul, or some such thing."

"Posting will cost a dooce of a lot of money," grumbled
Rawdon.

"We might take Southdown's carriage, which ought to
be present at the funeral, as he is a relation of the
family: but, no--I intend that we shall go by the coach.
They'll like it better. It seems more humble--"

"Rawdy goes, of course?" the Colonel asked.

"No such thing; why pay an extra place? He's too big to
travel bodkin between you and me. Let him stay here in
the nursery, and Briggs can make him a black frock. Go
you, and do as I bid you. And you had best tell Sparks,
your man, that old Sir Pitt is dead and that you will
come in for something considerable when the affairs are
arranged. He'll tell this to Raggles, who has been pressing
for money, and it will console poor Raggles." And so
Becky began sipping her chocolate.

When the faithful Lord Steyne arrived in the evening,
he found Becky and her companion, who was no other
than our friend Briggs, busy cutting, ripping, snipping,
and tearing all sorts of black stuffs available for the
melancholy occasion.

"Miss Briggs and I are plunged in grief and despondency
for the death of our Papa," Rebecca said. "Sir Pitt
Crawley is dead, my lord. We have been tearing our hair
all the morning, and now we are tearing up our old
clothes."

"Oh, Rebecca, how can you--" was all that Briggs could
say as she turned up her eyes.

"Oh, Rebecca, how can you--" echoed my Lord. "So
that old scoundrel's dead, is he? He might have been a
Peer if he had played his cards better. Mr. Pitt had very
nearly made him; but he ratted always at the wrong
time. What an old Silenus it was!"

"I might have been Silenus's widow," said Rebecca.
"Don't you remember, Miss Briggs, how you peeped in
at the door and saw old Sir Pitt on his knees to me?"
Miss Briggs, our old friend, blushed very much at this
reminiscence, and was glad when Lord Steyne ordered
her to go downstairs and make him a cup of tea.

Briggs was the house-dog whom Rebecca had provided
as guardian of her innocence and reputation. Miss Crawley
had left her a little annuity. She would have been
content to remain in the Crawley family with Lady Jane,
who was good to her and to everybody; but Lady
Southdown dismissed poor Briggs as quickly as decency
permitted; and Mr. Pitt (who thought himself much injured
by the uncalled-for generosity of his deceased relative
towards a lady who had only been Miss Crawley's
faithful retainer a score of years) made no objection to that
exercise of the dowager's authority. Bowls and Firkin
likewise received their legacies and their dismissals, and
married and set up a lodging-house, according to the
custom of their kind.

Briggs tried to live with her relations in the country,
but found that attempt was vain after the better society
to which she had been accustomed. Briggs's friends, small
tradesmen, in a country town, quarrelled over Miss
Briggs's forty pounds a year as eagerly and more openly
than Miss Crawley's kinsfolk had for that lady's
inheritance. Briggs's brother, a radical hatter and grocer, called
his sister a purse-proud aristocrat, because she would not
advance a part of her capital to stock his shop; and she
would have done so most likely, but that their sister, a
dissenting shoemaker's lady, at variance with the hatter
and grocer, who went to another chapel, showed how
their brother was on the verge of bankruptcy, and took
possession of Briggs for a while. The dissenting
shoemaker wanted Miss Briggs to send his son to college
and make a gentleman of him. Between them the two
families got a great portion of her private savings out of
her, and finally she fled to London followed by the
anathemas of both, and determined to seek for servitude
again as infinitely less onerous than liberty. And advertising
in the papers that a "Gentlewoman of agreeable
manners, and accustomed to the best society, was anxious
to," &c., she took up her residence with Mr. Bowls
in Half Moon Street, and waited the result of the
advertisement.

So it was that she fell in with Rebecca. Mrs. Rawdon's
dashing little carriage and ponies was whirling down the
street one day, just as Miss Briggs, fatigued, had
reached Mr. Bowls's door, after a weary walk to the
Times Office in the City to insert her advertisement for
the sixth time. Rebecca was driving, and at once
recognized the gentlewoman with agreeable manners, and
being a perfectly good-humoured woman, as we have
seen, and having a regard for Briggs, she pulled up the
ponies at the doorsteps, gave the reins to the groom,
and jumping out, had hold of both Briggs's hands, before
she of the agreeable manners had recovered from the
shock of seeing an old friend.

Briggs cried, and Becky laughed a great deal and
kissed the gentlewoman as soon as they got into the
passage; and thence into Mrs. Bowls's front parlour, with
the red moreen curtains, and the round looking-glass,
with the chained eagle above, gazing upon the back of
the ticket in the window which announced "Apartments
to Let."

Briggs told all her history amidst those perfectly
uncalled-for sobs and ejaculations of wonder with which
women of her soft nature salute an old acquaintance, or
regard a rencontre in the street; for though people meet
other people every day, yet some there are who insist
upon discovering miracles; and women, even though they
have disliked each other, begin to cry when they meet,
deploring and remembering the time when they last
quarrelled. So, in a word, Briggs told all her history, and
Becky gave a narrative of her own life, with her usual
artlessness and candour.

Mrs. Bowls, late Firkin, came and listened grimly in
the passage to the hysterical sniffling and giggling which
went on in the front parlour. Becky had never been a
favourite of hers. Since the establishment of the married
couple in London they had frequented their former
friends of the house of Raggles, and did not like the
latter's account of the Colonel's menage. "I wouldn't trust
him, Ragg, my boy," Bowls remarked; and his wife,
when Mrs. Rawdon issued from the parlour, only saluted
the lady with a very sour curtsey; and her fingers
were like so many sausages, cold and lifeless, when she
held them out in deference to Mrs. Rawdon, who persisted
in shaking hands with the retired lady's maid. She whirled
away into Piccadilly, nodding with the sweetest of smiles
towards Miss Briggs, who hung nodding at the window
close under the advertisement-card, and at the next
moment was in the park with a half-dozen of dandies
cantering after her carriage.

When she found how her friend was situated, and how
having a snug legacy from Miss Crawley, salary was no
object to our gentlewoman, Becky instantly formed some
benevolent little domestic plans concerning her. This
was just such a companion as would suit her establishment,
and she invited Briggs to come to dinner with her
that very evening, when she should see Becky's dear little
darling Rawdon.

Mrs. Bowls cautioned her lodger against venturing into
the lion's den, "wherein you will rue it, Miss B., mark my
words, and as sure as my name is Bowls." And Briggs
promised to be very cautious. The upshot of which
caution was that she went to live with Mrs. Rawdon the next
week, and had lent Rawdon Crawley six hundred pounds
upon annuity before six months were over.

CHAPTER XLI

In Which Becky Revisits the Halls of Her Ancestors

So the mourning being ready, and Sir Pitt Crawley warned
of their arrival, Colonel Crawley and his wife took a
couple of places in the same old High-flyer coach by
which Rebecca had travelled in the defunct Baronet's
company, on her first journey into the world some nine
years before. How well she remembered the Inn Yard,
and the ostler to whom she refused money, and the
insinuating Cambridge lad who wrapped her in his coat on
the journey! Rawdon took his place outside, and would
have liked to drive, but his grief forbade him. He sat by
the coachman and talked about horses and the road the
whole way; and who kept the inns, and who horsed the
coach by which he had travelled so many a time, when
he and Pitt were boys going to Eton. At Mudbury a
carriage and a pair of horses received them, with a
coachman in black. "It's the old drag, Rawdon," Rebecca said
as they got in. "The worms have eaten the cloth a good
deal--there's the stain which Sir Pitt--ha! I see Dawson
the Ironmonger has his shutters up--which Sir Pitt made
such a noise about. It was a bottle of cherry brandy he
broke which we went to fetch for your aunt from
Southampton. How time flies, to be sure! That can't be Polly
Talboys, that bouncing girl standing by her mother at
the cottage there. I remember her a mangy little urchin
picking weeds in the garden."

"Fine gal," said Rawdon, returning the salute which the
cottage gave him, by two fingers applied to his crape
hatband. Becky bowed and saluted, and recognized
people here and there graciously. These recognitions were
inexpressibly pleasant to her. It seemed as if she was
not an imposter any more, and was coming to the home
of her ancestors. Rawdon was rather abashed and cast
down, on the other hand. What recollections of boyhood
and innocence might have been flitting across his brain?
What pangs of dim remorse and doubt and shame?

"Your sisters must be young women now," Rebecca
said, thinking of those girls for the first time perhaps
since she had left them.

"Don't know, I'm shaw," replied the Colonel. "Hullo!
here's old Mother Lock. How-dy-do, Mrs. Lock? Remember
me, don't you? Master Rawdon, hey? Dammy how
those old women last; she was a hundred when I was a
boy."

They were going through the lodge-gates kept by old
Mrs. Lock, whose hand Rebecca insisted upon shaking,
as she flung open the creaking old iron gate, and the
carriage passed between the two moss-grown pillars
surmounted by the dove and serpent.

"The governor has cut into the timber," Rawdon said,
looking about, and then was silent--so was Becky. Both
of them were rather agitated, and thinking of old times.
He about Eton, and his mother, whom he remembered,
a frigid demure woman, and a sister who died, of whom
he had been passionately fond; and how he used to thrash
Pitt; and about little Rawdy at home. And Rebecca
thought about her own youth and the dark secrets of
those early tainted days; and of her entrance into life
by yonder gates; and of Miss Pinkerton, and Joe, and
Amelia.

The gravel walk and terrace had been scraped quite
clean. A grand painted hatchment was already over the
great entrance, and two very solemn and tall personages
in black flung open each a leaf of the door as the
carriage pulled up at the familiar steps. Rawdon turned red,
and Becky somewhat pale, as they passed through the
old hall, arm in arm. She pinched her husband's arm
as they entered the oak parlour, where Sir Pitt and his
wife were ready to receive them. Sir Pitt in black, Lady
Jane in black, and my Lady Southdown with a large black
head-piece of bugles and feathers, which waved on her
Ladyship's head like an undertaker's tray.

Sir Pitt had judged correctly, that she would not quit
the premises. She contented herself by preserving a
solemn and stony silence, when in company of Pitt and
his rebellious wife, and by frightening the children in
the nursery by the ghastly gloom of her demeanour.
Only a very faint bending of the head-dress and plumes
welcomed Rawdon and his wife, as those prodigals
returned to their family.

To say the truth, they were not affected very much
one way or other by this coolness. Her Ladyship was a
person only of secondary consideration in their minds
just then--they were intent upon the reception which
the reigning brother and sister would afford them.

Pitt, with rather a heightened colour, went up and
shook his brother by the hand, and saluted Rebecca with
a hand-shake and a very low bow. But Lady Jane took both
the hands of her sister-in-law and kissed her affectionately.
The embrace somehow brought tears into the eyes of
the little adventuress--which ornaments, as we know,
she wore very seldom. The artless mark of kindness and
confidence touched and pleased her; and Rawdon,
encouraged by this demonstration on his sister's part,
twirled up his mustachios and took leave to salute Lady
Jane with a kiss, which caused her Ladyship to blush
exceedingly.

"Dev'lish nice little woman, Lady Jane," was his verdict,
when he and his wife were together again. "Pitt's got fat,
too, and is doing the thing handsomely." "He can afford
it," said Rebecca and agreed in her husband's farther
opinion "that the mother-in-law was a tremendous old
Guy--and that the sisters were rather well-looking
young women."

They, too, had been summoned from school to attend
the funeral ceremonies. It seemed Sir Pitt Crawley, for
the dignity of the house and family, had thought right to
have about the place as many persons in black as could
possibly be assembled. All the men and maids of the
house, the old women of the Alms House, whom the elder
Sir Pitt had cheated out of a great portion of their
due, the parish clerk's family, and the special retainers
of both Hall and Rectory were habited in sable; added to
these, the undertaker's men, at least a score, with crapes
and hatbands, and who made goodly show when the
great burying show took place--but these are mute
personages in our drama; and having nothing to do or say,
need occupy a very little space here.

With regard to her sisters-in-law Rebecca did not
attempt to forget her former position of Governess
towards them, but recalled it frankly and kindly, and asked
them about their studies with great gravity, and told them
that she had thought of them many and many a day,
and longed to know of their welfare. In fact you would
have supposed that ever since she had left them she had
not ceased to keep them uppermost in her thoughts and to
take the tenderest interest in their welfare. So supposed
Lady Crawley herself and her young sisters.

"She's hardly changed since eight years," said Miss
Rosalind to Miss Violet, as they were preparing for dinner.

"Those red-haired women look wonderfully well,"
replied the other.

"Hers is much darker than it was; I think she must dye
it," Miss Rosalind added. "She is stouter, too, and
altogether improved," continued Miss Rosalind, who was
disposed to be very fat.

"At least she gives herself no airs and remembers that
she was our Governess once," Miss Violet said, intimating
that it befitted all governesses to keep their proper place,
and forgetting altogether that she was granddaughter not
only of Sir Walpole Crawley, but of Mr. Dawson of
Mudbury, and so had a coal-scuttle in her scutcheon. There
are other very well-meaning people whom one meets
every day in Vanity Fair who are surely equally oblivious.

"It can't be true what the girls at the Rectory said, that
her mother was an opera-dancer--"

"A person can't help their birth," Rosalind replied with
great liberality. "And I agree with our brother, that as she
is in the family, of course we are bound to notice her.
I am sure Aunt Bute need not talk; she wants to marry
Kate to young Hooper, the wine-merchant, and absolutely
asked him to come to the Rectory for orders."

"I wonder whether Lady Southdown will go away, she
looked very glum upon Mrs. Rawdon," the other said.

"I wish she would. I won't read the Washerwoman
of Finchley Common," vowed Violet; and so saying, and
avoiding a passage at the end of which a certain coffin was
placed with a couple of watchers, and lights perpetually
burning in the closed room, these young women came
down to the family dinner, for which the bell rang as
usual.

But before this, Lady Jane conducted Rebecca to the
apartments prepared for her, which, with the rest of the
house, had assumed a very much improved appearance
of order and comfort during Pitt's regency, and here
beholding that Mrs. Rawdon's modest little trunks had
arrived, and were placed in the bedroom and
dressing-room adjoining, helped her to take off her neat
black bonnet and cloak, and asked her sister-in-law in
what more she could be useful.

"What I should like best," said Rebecca, "would be to
go to the nursery and see your dear little children." On
which the two ladies looked very kindly at each other
and went to that apartment hand in hand.

Becky admired little Matilda, who was not quite four
years old, as the most charming little love in the world;
and the boy, a little fellow of two years--pale, heavy-eyed,
and large-headed--she pronounced to be a perfect
prodigy in point of size, intelligence, and beauty.

"I wish Mamma would not insist on giving him so much
medicine," Lady Jane said with a sigh. "I often think we
should all be better without it." And then Lady Jane and
her new-found friend had one of those confidential medical conversations about the children, which all mothers,
and most women, as I am given to understand, delight in.
Fifty years ago, and when the present writer, being an
interesting little boy, was ordered out of the room with
the ladies after dinner, I remember quite well that their
talk was chiefly about their ailments; and putting this
question directly to two or three since, I have always got
from them the acknowledgement that times are not
changed. Let my fair readers remark for themselves this
very evening when they quit the dessert-table and
assemble to celebrate the drawing-room mysteries. Well
--in half an hour Becky and Lady Jane were close and
intimate friends--and in the course of the evening her
Ladyship informed Sir Pitt that she thought her new
sister-in-law was a kind, frank, unaffected, and affectionate
young woman.

And so having easily won the daughter's good-will, the
indefatigable little woman bent herself to conciliate the
august Lady Southdown. As soon as she found her Ladyship
alone, Rebecca attacked her on the nursery question
at once and said that her own little boy was saved,
actually saved, by calomel, freely administered, when all the
physicians in Paris had given the dear child up. And then
she mentioned how often she had heard of Lady Southdown
from that excellent man the Reverend Lawrence
Grills, Minister of the chapel in May Fair, which she
frequented; and how her views were very much changed
by circumstances and misfortunes; and how she hoped that
a past life spent in worldliness and error might not
incapacitate her from more serious thought for the future.
She described how in former days she had been indebted
to Mr. Crawley for religious instruction, touched upon
the Washerwoman of Finchley Common, which she had
read with the greatest profit, and asked about Lady
Emily, its gifted author, now Lady Emily Hornblower, at
Cape Town, where her husband had strong hopes of
becoming Bishop of Caffraria.

But she crowned all, and confirmed herself in Lady
Southdown's favour, by feeling very much agitated and
unwell after the funeral and requesting her Ladyship's
medical advice, which the Dowager not only gave, but,
wrapped up in a bed-gown and looking more like Lady
Macbeth than ever, came privately in the night to Becky's
room with a parcel of favourite tracts, and a medicine
of her own composition, which she insisted that Mrs.
Rawdon should take.

Becky first accepted the tracts and began to examine
them with great interest, engaging the Dowager in a
conversation concerning them and the welfare of her soul,
by which means she hoped that her body might escape
medication. But after the religious topics were exhausted,
Lady Macbeth would not quit Becky's chamber until her
cup of night-drink was emptied too; and poor Mrs. Rawdon
was compelled actually to assume a look of gratitude, and
to swallow the medicine under the unyielding old Dowager's
nose, who left her victim finally with a benediction.

It did not much comfort Mrs. Rawdon; her countenance
was very queer when Rawdon came in and heard what
had happened; and. his explosions of laughter were as
loud as usual, when Becky, with a fun which she could
not disguise, even though it was at her own expense,
described the occurrence and how she had been victimized
by Lady Southdown. Lord Steyne, and her son in
London, had many a laugh over the story when Rawdon
and his wife returned to their quarters in May Fair. Becky
acted the whole scene for them. She put on a night-cap
and gown. She preached a great sermon in the true serious
manner; she lectured on the virtue of the medicine
which she pretended to administer, with a gravity of
imitation so perfect that you would have thought it was
the Countess's own Roman nose through which she snuffled.
"Give us Lady Southdown and the black dose," was
a constant cry amongst the folks in Becky's little
drawing-room in May Fair. And for the first time in her
life the Dowager Countess of Southdown was made amusing.

Sir Pitt remembered the testimonies of respect and
veneration which Rebecca had paid personally to himself
in early days, and was tolerably well disposed towards
her. The marriage, ill-advised as it was, had improved
Rawdon very much--that was clear from the Colonel's
altered habits and demeanour--and had it not been a
lucky union as regarded Pitt himself? The cunning
diplomatist smiled inwardly as he owned that he owed his
fortune to it, and acknowledged that he at least ought not
to cry out against it. His satisfaction was not removed
by Rebecca's own statements, behaviour, and
conversation.

She doubled the deference which before had charmed
him, calling out his conversational powers in such a
manner as quite to surprise Pitt himself, who, always
inclined to respect his own talents, admired them the more
when Rebecca pointed them out to him. With her
sister-in-law, Rebecca was satisfactorily able to prove that it
was Mrs. Bute Crawley who brought about the marriage
which she afterwards so calumniated; that it was Mrs.
Bute's avarice--who hoped to gain all Miss Crawley's
fortune and deprive Rawdon of his aunt's favour--which
caused and invented all the wicked reports against
Rebecca. "She succeeded in making us poor," Rebecca
said with an air of angelical patience; "but how can I
be angry with a woman who has given me one of the best
husbands in the world? And has not her own avarice
been sufficiently punished by the ruin of her own hopes and
the loss of the property by which she set so much
store? Poor!" she cried. "Dear Lady Jane, what care we
for poverty? I am used to it from childhood, and I am
often thankful that Miss Crawley's money has gone to
restore the splendour of the noble old family of which
I am so proud to be a member. I am sure Sir Pitt will
make a much better use of it than Rawdon would."

All these speeches were reported to Sir Pitt by the
most faithful of wives, and increased the favourable
impression which Rebecca made; so much so that when,
on the third day after the funeral, the family party were
at dinner, Sir Pitt Crawley, carving fowls at the head of
the table, actually said to Mrs. Rawdon, "Ahem! Rebecca,
may I give you a wing?"--a speech which made the little
woman's eyes sparkle with pleasure.

While Rebecca was prosecuting the above schemes and
hopes, and Pitt Crawley arranging the funeral ceremonial
and other matters connected with his future progress and
dignity, and Lady Jane busy with her nursery, as far as
her mother would let her, and the sun rising and setting,
and the clock-tower bell of the Hall ringing to dinner and
to prayers as usual, the body of the late owner of Queen's
Crawley lay in the apartment which he had occupied,
watched unceasingly by the professional attendants who
were engaged for that rite. A woman or two, and three
or four undertaker's men, the best whom Southampton
could furnish, dressed in black, and of a proper stealthy
and tragical demeanour, had charge of the remains which
they watched turn about, having the housekeeper's room
for their place of rendezvous when off duty, where they
played at cards in privacy and drank their beer.

The members of the family and servants of the house
kept away from the gloomy spot, where the bones of the
descendant of an ancient line of knights and gentlemen
lay, awaiting their final consignment to the family crypt.
No regrets attended them, save those of the poor woman
who had hoped to be Sir Pitt's wife and widow and who
had fled in disgrace from the Hall over which she had so
nearly been a ruler. Beyond her and a favourite old pointer
he had, and between whom and himself an attachment
subsisted during the period of his imbecility, the old man
had not a single friend to mourn him, having indeed,
during the whole course of his life, never taken the least
pains to secure one. Could the best and kindest of us who
depart from the earth have an opportunity of revisiting
it, I suppose he or she (assuming that any Vanity Fair
feelings subsist in the sphere whither we are bound)
would have a pang of mortification at finding how soon
our survivors were consoled. And so Sir Pitt was
forgotten--like the kindest and best of us--only a few
weeks sooner.